Charlie
I wake up as if something inside me has been struck by lightning.
My eyes snap open, and my whole body jerks under the covers, heart punching so hard against my ribs that for one horrible second I think I might actually be having some kind of cardiac event.
My mouth opens around a gasp, but I catch it before it can turn into a sound, clamping my lips together so tightly my teeth click.
It’s still dark.
There is a little line of light spilling in from the bathroom, soft and yellow and expensive-looking, because even the darkness here feels rich. Even the shadows have better lives than I do.
My body is warm under the thick, plush comforter and the robe, which actually feels worse than waking up cold would have been, because my body has no right to feel comfortable right now.
I’d told myself I’d just pretend to sleep, wait until Nikolaus was out, then run. That’s what should’ve happened.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, barely moving my mouth. “Oh my God, Charlie, you stupid fucking—”
I stop, eyes darting across the bed to where Nikolaus is still asleep.
He is lying on the other side of the mattress, which is so big that I think two or three more people could fit between us, but he still feels too close.
He is on his back, one arm bent under his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach.
The blanket has slipped down to his waist, leaving his upper body exposed.
I don’t mean to look.
I really don’t.
But I do.
It’s hard not to, because he’s huge. Not just tall, not just broad in a way that already seemed ridiculous when he was dressed, but heavy and solid and dark all over.
Thick chest. Thick arms. Dark, coarse hair across his pecs and stomach, trailing down beneath the sheet in a way that makes my face go hot even through the panic.
There are scars too, pale marks cutting across his tan skin in places I do not want to think about too hard, because men like him don’t get scars from normal things.
They don’t get them from falling off bikes when they’re kids or burning themselves on cookie sheets.
They get them from knives, or—or bullets… or whatever else crazy people like him get hurt with. Hammers?
No, not hammers.
Well… Maybe, right?
No, Charlie. No one is bringing a dumb hammer to a gun fight.
Right…?
No. Shoot. It doesn’t matter. Stay focused, Charlie, c’mon.
Nikolaus looks asleep, but I don’t completely trust it. His face is relaxed, beard shadowing the strong line of his jaw, mouth softened in a way that almost makes him look less terrifying. But even asleep, he looks like someone who could wake up and ruin my life with one hand.
Which, to be fair, he already has.
I turn my head slowly toward the nightstand.
The clock says 4:03 a.m.
For a second, the numbers don’t click, don’t really mean anything, and then my brain finally connects them to real time.
Four in the morning.
I slept for about four hours.
Four hours.
I almost laugh at how ridiculously dumb I am, but it comes out as a tiny, silent wheeze that hurts my throat.
Four whole hours.
I fell asleep beside a man who took me from the club against my will, stripped me, bathed me, told me he was taking me across the country, and then tucked me into bed.
I press both hands over my face, careful not to move too much, and scream internally.
I hate my stupid, exhausted body. I hate how easy it is to trick.
Warm water. Clean hair. A heavy robe. A few grapes.
A low voice telling me I’m good, and apparently, my nervous system just rolls over and exposes its belly like a dog.
Like it doesn’t matter that I’m in danger.
Like it doesn’t matter that I was crying so hard I could barely breathe only a few hours ago.
Maybe that’s why I slept.
Maybe my body got tired of being afraid.
Maybe there is only so long a person can panic before the brain flips a breaker and says, “No, we’re done.”
But I can’t be done.
Not now.
The flight.
My stomach drops so fast I almost gag.
He said the flight was early. A private jet to New York.
Once I get on that plane, I can’t think about what happens after.
I can’t. My brain just goes white and staticky when I try to imagine it.
New York is too far. New York is another world.
New York means there won’t be a front desk downstairs, or random strangers I can scream to, or a street I might recognize if I can get outside.
New York means Nikolaus’s house, Nikolaus’s people, Nikolaus’s rules.
New York means I disappear.
This is it. The thought lands with a cold, clear certainty that cuts through everything else.
This is my last chance.
I turn my head back toward him, holding my breath as his chest rises and falls. His breathing is even enough that I think he has to be asleep, but I still watch him for what feels like an entire hour before I dare to shift.
The bed creaks when I start to move.
Not loudly.
Probably not loudly.
But to me, it sounds like a gunshot.
I freeze, every muscle locked, mouth open around another trapped breath. Nikolaus does not move.
I wait.
One second.
Five.
Ten.
Still nothing.
Okay.
Okay, okay, okay.
I can do this.
I ease one leg out from under the blankets, then the other.
The robe bunches around my knees, too thick and soft and stupidly luxurious, and I have to stop to untangle it.
My hands are shaking so badly the belt nearly comes loose, and I grab it at the last second, pulling it tighter around my waist.
The robe is too big.
Of course, it’s too big. Everything about this room is too big. The bed. The windows. The space between the furniture. The man sleeping behind me. I feel like Jack in the Giant’s castle.
My feet touch the carpet, and thank god it’s so soft it swallows the sound.
I stand slowly, gripping the edge of the mattress until the dizziness passes.
My head feels wrong. Too light and too heavy at the same time.
My body is warm from sleep, but my hands are cold, and there is a fluttering weakness in my stomach that makes me remember the grapes.
Three grapes and some water. That’s not nearly enough.
Too bad.
I look at Nikolaus again.
Still asleep.
I take one step.
Then another.
Every movement feels impossibly loud. My breathing. The brush of the robe against my legs. Even my heartbeat feels like something he might hear, because he seems like the kind of man who can hear heartbeats.
The room is dim, but not dark enough to hide all the evidence of him. His shirt is folded over a chair. His belt is beside his watch. His shoes are near the dresser, perfectly aligned.
Mine are nowhere.
I go into the bathroom first because that’s where my clothes were. At least, I think that’s where my clothes were. My brain is a mess of fragments from earlier. Water. His hands. The robe. His voice. The awful, embarrassing way I let him wash my hair.
I push the bathroom door open just enough to slip inside, squinting at the light. I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the huge mirror and cringe.
I look like a ghost.
My hair is dry in weird places and damp in others, curling at the ends and sticking up near one temple. My face is puffy from crying. My eyes are red. The robe hangs off one shoulder, swallowing my whole body, the belt tied too tightly around the middle.
I look ridiculous.
I look scared.
And most of all, I look like someone who has no idea what he’s doing.
I push that thought away frantically, needing anything but self-deprecation at the present moment.
Luckily, I find my hoodie folded on the counter. It looks like it’s been cleaned. The sight of it makes something tighten painfully in my chest.
My hoodie.
Mine.
I grab it and clutch it to me before I can think too hard about why it almost makes me cry.
My sweatpants are gone. My socks are gone. My underwear is gone.
My shoes are definitely gone.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
I search anyway because panic does not care about the obvious.
I open drawers. I look behind the bathroom door.
I crouch down and peer under the vanity like maybe my shoes crawled there to hide.
Nothing. Nothing but towels, tiny glass bottles, extra toothbrushes, a hairdryer, and a scale I do not even look at because there is only so much psychological damage I can take in one night.
No clothes.
No shoes.
Just the robe and my hoodie.
I pull the hoodie on over the robe because I need it. It looks stupid. It feels bulky and wrong, the robe sleeves bunching inside the hoodie sleeves, but I don’t care. I tighten the robe belt again beneath it until it’s digging into my stomach.
I look down and spot the hotel slippers near the tub. They won’t be super helpful if I have to run anywhere, but they’re still better than bare feet.
I slide them on, then hesitate. I don’t know where my phone and wallet are. They might not even be in this hotel suite. I also have no idea where I am, other than that I’m in a fancy-shmancy hotel.
I want to cry again, but I sniffle back the growing pressure behind my eyes and remind myself that all of that is better than being taken across the country. My chances of a successful escape are exponentially higher if I leave right now, so I need to be strong.
I creep back out from the bathroom, check that my captor is still asleep, then go.
The bedroom door is open, leading out into the sitting area.
Beyond that, the suite stretches long and shadowy, city light spilling through the huge windows and turning the furniture into strange, angular shapes.
Everything looks different at night. During the day, maybe it would be beautiful.
Right now, it just looks like a horrible obstacle course.
I step around a low table, trying to be as silent as possible, but the slippers slide on my feet, and I nearly trip. I manage to catch myself on the back of a sofa, then freeze to listen for any signs Nikolaus has woken up. There’s nothing.
Keep going.