Chapter 7 Tess
TESS
The next thing I know is soft light. It’s pleasantly warm, and the sheets are smooth. For a second, I hover in a place of utter comfort.
I sit bolt upright, heart thudding.
Kidnapped. I was kidnapped.
The room is elegantly lovely in the morning, bright and airy, all delicate greys and white, and windows that look over woods. Despite everything, my anxiety notches down. At least I’m not tied up in a basement.
Or dead.
I shiver.
It’s a big room, with floor-to-ceiling windows and tones of the palest grey down to a deep charcoal for the furniture. It’s exactly as it was last night, including the door being locked.
Except a pop of colour stands out.
On a white sofa there’s a stack of clothes, and on the low table in front of it there’s a glass of orange juice, a big black mug, and a plate piled with pastries of the type I sometimes treat myself to when I’m feeling really down.
I approach warily. I’m sure there are rules and things about what to do when you’ve been kidnapped, and they include not accepting food or drink in case it’s drugged or something.
But I saw the man yesterday inject the guy he killed, and I feel moderately confident that if he wanted me unconscious, he’d have just stabbed me. Or hit me over the head.
Plus, I need coffee more than anything. Caffeine makes my world go round, and the mug looks like it has my favourite milky coffee in it.
I perch on the edge of the sofa—it’s far too pristine and white to slump into—and reach for the coffee. The mug is still hot, as though someone left it only minutes ago, and my eyes dart around the room, checking. Paranoia? Maybe. But I seem to be alone. Unless there are cameras?
It hardly seems worth worrying about given I was running for my life last night.
I bring the coffee to my lips a little hesitantly, part of me waiting to be told off. But the scent is heavenly—rich and smooth and a bit caramelly—and when I take a mouthful, I moan as feel-good floods my body. I really needed this.
Delicious coffee provided as though by magic? My lizard brain approves. A few more sips and I remember that I’ve been kidnapped. I’m in danger. I should investigate further.
I examine the neat pile of clothes. It has a silky top that’s remarkably similar to the one I was browsing online last month, a bra in exactly my correct size, plain but matching knickers, and a pair of cute shorts.
They all have the vibe of being new, but I can’t be sure since there aren’t any tags.
Wherever they came from, it was really nice of someone to bring in clean clothes for me.
I pick up a pastry, and find it’s slightly warmed, the buttery smell wafting to me. It’s the perfect amount of flaky crunch and sweetness exploding on my tongue as I bite into it.
Who knew kidnappers provided such good food? I’ve been misled by all the bread crusts and water things. This is heaven.
I finish one pastry in greedy mouthfuls, then gulp down the life-giving nectar of the coffee and eye a second one. In the end, I decide against it, because my skin feels ick.
I lock the bathroom door, and consider the enormous bathtub with the view over a forest, but opt for the smart option of a shower. The tiles are little grey pebbles on the floor, and I’ve never been to an expensive hotel, but I bet this is what it feels like.
Minus the kidnap, and nervousness about what’s going to happen next.
But with the door locked—why didn’t I think of locking myself in the bathroom last night?—I feel secure.
The en-suite shower is large and luxurious.
There are toiletries—the rose-scented shampoo and conditioner I like, and other things, which is a bit odd.
A coincidence, I guess. I bought these on special offer last month, and perhaps whoever manages this house—I’m sure it’s not the masked man who kidnapped me, men aren’t like that—has similar preferences for bargains.
I dress in the clothes provided, because I work better in clean clothes and with a clear mind, and I’m feeling as good as it’s possible to be when you’re not confident you’re going to survive the day.
Escape is my priority, so a thorough search of my room is the next task.
Except when I step back into the bedroom, I stop dead. The man from last night is lounging on the sofa.
Wearing the mask.
He’s bigger than I remember. He’s in jeans and a grey T-shirt, and in the light of day I can see that there are a few flecks of silver in his black hair.
My kidnapper is gorgeous. Absolutely terrifying, but beautiful in a way that I’ve never thought any man could be. He has a criss-cross of tattoos in straight lines that remind me of the insides of an electronic device that’s broken, and you can see all the component parts.
I have this sudden and stupid desire to see his face again. The square of his jaw, his grey eyes.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is the same as I remember from last night. Deep, and with a gravelly Russian accent.
I lunge for the door.
He sighs as I yank at it, and it doesn’t budge. I fall back, defeated.
“People are looking for me, you know. You won’t get away with this.” My bravery feels good, if rather like a shot of something alcoholic and sweet that will inevitably be regretted. I’m doing well. “If you just release me—”
“Tess Summerfield,” he drawls.
All the blood drains from my face, along with capacity to control my muscles. My mouth hangs open. How does he know that?
“I messaged the girls you live with and told them you’re visiting your dad,” he says casually, tossing my phone onto the sofa next to him. “The university you attend—psychology, interesting choice of study—has received a note from your doctor that you’re unwell. And your parents…” He trails off.
I fill in what he’s polite enough not to say. They won’t notice that anything has happened.
They barely contact me. Both are so busy with their new families, that are so much better than the one they tried to have with me.
No one wants me.
But somehow, this man knows all my secrets. Eyeing him warily, I approach. That mask is disconcerting, and muffles his voice in strange ways. But even so, I’m sure I’d remember his face anywhere. It will be in my dreams forever.
“Please, just let me go,” I mutter. If I can get to my phone without him noticing, perhaps I can call the police.
My kidnapper shakes his head.
“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” I sound pathetic.
“You saw my face.”
“It was dark, I don’t know what I saw.”
He regards me silently through the neon-glowing mask.
“Please don’t kill me.” My tone goes up on the last word, almost a question. Did I just mess up and remind him of an option he’d forgotten. I’m so confused about what the right thing to do is.
“I haven’t decided what to do with you.”
My clit pulses at the sound of his dark, husky voice.
Oh god. Not now, body. This is not the time to discover interest in a man.
Focus, Tess.
“You could let me go?” Not even glancing at my phone, I sit down on the other end of the sofa and scoop up the little device.
I lean forward so the tops of my boobs are on show a bit, and tap on the phone where I think the right numbers are, praying that if it works, he doesn’t hear the operator answer the call.
“Tess…”
He waits until I’m looking into the glowing crosses of his eyes.
“I restricted your phone so it can only directly contact me, and anything you attempt to send will be checked by me. If it’s appropriate, for instance, an email letting your professors know you are unwell and can’t attend class, then I’ll allow it.
A call to the emergency services isn’t on the approved list.”
I slump.
So much for my great idea. Two years of a degree in psychology, and I can’t figure out how to get away from a serial killer. They say university doesn’t teach practical skills, and they weren’t kidding.
My eyes unfocused, I stare at the sofa, defeated.
His fingertips touch my chin, and my heart leaps as he gently lifts my face up to look into his.
The grinning mouth sends a bolt of fear and excitement down my chest and arms.
If only… I should have hidden. I should have run the other way. I could be safe in my own boring little life. That’s what I’d prefer, right. Right?
“It’s not so bad, lapochka,” he says, almost sounding regretful.
“Just… I didn’t get a proper chance to escape,” I plead. “This isn’t fair.”
He tilts his head to the side. And to give him his due, he doesn’t point out that life isn’t fair, or that it’s childish to think it should be, like this is a playground game. “In what way?”
“If I hadn’t needed to unlock the door to my house, I’d have got away. I’d be safe at home—”
He snorts.
“And I was at the end of a long shift,” I finish pathetically. “I wasn’t at my best.”
“I apologise for not abducting you at a time more to your liking.” I can’t see his expression, but his voice is full of amusement.
“Yes. Well. Some notice would have been nice. I could have packed a bag, and it would have saved someone the hassle of finding clothes for me.” That’s as close as I dare to ask about the very convenient items left in this room.
“Kidnappers don’t wait for you to find clean knickers,” he replies dryly, leaning forwards slightly, as though he’s engaged with this discussion like I am.
How did we start talking about my underwear?
“Which is very rude.” My heart thuds with nerves. I’m pushing my luck. I’m yo-yoing between being scared when he’s not around to far too bold when he is. Like the idea of this masked killer is far worse than his actual presence.
“My apologies. But I bought you new knickers. White ones,” he adds, making it sound absolutely filthy. “Are you wearing them now?”
The air is stolen from my lungs, and my head goes floaty.
Is this… flirting? I’m not great at reading people, and this is a very unusual situation. But I’m pretty sure I should be more scared and have fewer warm tingles.
I didn’t expect this.
“You’re asking if I’m wearing your knickers?”
He chuckles, and I’m disproportionately pleased.
“I think they suit you better than me.” He looks me up and down. “You were good at running.”
I make a dismissive noise. Hardly. I drag myself to the gym sometimes, but I’m usually bored, tired, and scrolling on my phone rather than exercising after about fifteen minutes.
“Come on.” He stands and walks to the door, opening it with a card he scans so quickly I almost miss it. “You want to escape? We’ll play a game.”