Chapter 11 Tess
TESS
Kirill. My kidnapper’s name is Kirill. It suits him.
He gave me the best orgasm of my life, after a chase through the woods that was straight out of a horror movie crossed with a very spicy romance novel.
I’m so conflicted. I shouldn’t enjoy being in his arms, but honestly, a part of me is relieved he caught me.
And being carried back to the house, feeling the solid beat of his heart against my cheek, was far nicer than I can admit to myself.
He gently lowers me to the floor in the same bedroom as before, and I get the full effect of just how big his erection is as he slides me down his body. He pauses, looking down at me and frowning, as though he’s displeased by this whole thing. Then steps back and nods abruptly.
“I’ll be downstairs. Come and find me when you’re ready.”
Then he leaves me gaping after him as he walks out. I guess I’m not contained to this bedroom anymore.
I clean myself up in the bathroom, and when I return, there’s a new pile of items waiting for me on the sofa, and the remnants of breakfast have been cleared away.
Is that…?
I approach the items warily. More clothes—to wear instead of the ones I just rolled around in the forest in, I assume—including pyjamas and a fluffy sweater that’s exactly the same shade of blue to one I have saved on a social media site a few months ago after I saw a customer in the pub wearing it, and asked where she got it.
This is beyond a coincidence. My heart races.
It’s a designer item, in my size. No one bought this on sale, or had it in the cupboard just in case. This was purchased especially for me.
That sounds conceited, but there’s no other explanation. And this was a while ago that I was looking at the sweater and saved it. Yes, I’ve peeked at it since, but another concern bubbles up.
Was my kidnap a coincidence, or something more sinister?
I shiver.
Kirill did this. All of it.
What I don’t know is how he knew about the sweater or why he would want me in particular. Certainly, I don’t know anyone who thinks I’m special. Maybe that’s the point. No one will miss me.
This is unhinged. I cannot be seduced by considerate provision of pastries and coffee, orgasms, and the fact my captor is so gorgeous he probably has to wear that mask to prevent being mobbed by women begging him to give them babies. I have to be smarter than that.
Whatever we agreed, I need to escape.
Conscience pricks me as I pick up my phone and try to dial the emergency services. We made a deal, but surely, I have to try?
It won’t connect, just as Kirill said.
Clutching my phone, I venture into the corridor. It’s bright and airy from skylights high above. Most of the doors are open, and the vibe is the same everywhere. White, black, grey. Glass, steel, ceramic. Minimal. Not a hint of personality to be seen.
Or maybe this is my kidnapper’s personality.
It’s sort of peaceful.
There’s no way of escaping. The windows are locked, and though there are doors onto a roof terrace, they won’t open. Downstairs it’s the same. I note one room that’s shut and guess that’s the kitchen. Probably smart not to allow me access to knives or boiling water.
Finally, I get to a large, airy room that has enormous windows slid open to the terrace where we ran from earlier, plush sofas and chairs arranged together, and books on shelves all around the outside of the room.
Rows and rows of books, reaching up to the ceiling. All pale spines, as though it’s a social media background.
I’m staring at this when a small movement makes me finally notice Kirill sitting behind a clean white desk with a huge computer monitor on the other side of the room.
My heart does an uncalled-for lurch. His hair is damp and tousled, like he showered after our chase, and he’s wearing a white T-shirt now.
He’s not looking at me, so I take the moment to examine him.
The tattoos. His muscles. The scatter of black hair on his forearms. I tell myself I’m ensuring I can describe him when I eventually manage to go to the police, but I doubt they’ll find a detailed description of his lips particularly useful for identification.
“Hi,” I say, uncertainly, moving into his eyeline. My tummy is doing a nervous dance.
“Lapochka,” he replies, flicking his gaze to me, then back to the computer screen.
That’s all I get?
Well, you got an orgasm and the most exhilarating thing that’s ever happened to you, whispers a voice in my head. What else do you want?
I turn and examine the books, and consider the open doors from the side of my eyes. They’re mainly non-fiction. Some thrillers. But they’re nearly all hardbacks, and the paperbacks that there are have never had their spines broken. They seem a bit too perfect.
“Have you read any of these?” I ask eventually.
“Most, yes.”
“Really?” I don’t hold back the scepticism in my voice.
“Not those copies.” He remains focused on his computer. “I don’t read dead tree. But I like the aesthetic of it, so I had the interior designer do the shelves based on my interests.”
I’m not sure if that’s awful, genius, or just proof that he is as rich as he says he is. He doesn’t even arrange his own bookshelves.
“But you don’t read much on paper, either,” he states, looking over at me, his metal eyes sharp. It’s not a question.
I press my lips together. How does he know that?
Something catches his attention on his screen, and I’m ridiculously hurt when he looks away from me.
“Your present is ready,” he says, reaching into a drawer of his desk, and pulling out a familiar black device.
I approach warily, and take it from his hand.
An e-reader. It’s the latest model, and seems to be new. And when I press the button to switch it on, the page that flicks to life makes tingles go up and down my spine.
Hello Tess! it announces.
What?
Kirill is watching me, and when I look back at him, his expression is utterly neutral. He reveals nothing.
I turn it over in confusion, but it’s not my e-reader from home. That’s an old one, with a screen that isn’t as good, and lots of stickers on it. Then it begins to load my books, the covers popping up.
Loads of my library holds have come through. I stare for a moment, then snatch up my phone and check the library apps.
It’s not just that some are available. It’s all of them, including the audiobooks, and even titles that had twelve-month waiting lists and have recently been published.
Looking back at the e-reader, I’m trembling with excitement and how unnerved I am. I have twenty-eight days to read a year’s worth of books.
What happened?
Is this how you catch a book girl? I’m not shallow enough to be lured into accepting a dangerous situation with a really, really great supply of ebooks.
Am I?
“How did you get all of this?” I demand, indicating my clothes and the e-reader.
“You’d rather be naked and bored?” he drawls.
If he was naked too, I wouldn’t be bored. I bite my lip to prevent that totally inappropriate thought popping out.
“I have staff,” he says, as though that’s both obvious and normal. “I ordered things. They went and bought them.”
“But the brands! And the sizes, and I’m not explaining myself very well.” This man makes my brain turn to goo.
He sits back in the fancy swivel chair, folds his arms over his chest, and regards me thoughtfully.
“Were you stalking me?” I demand, and immediately feel like an idiot when his eyebrows shoot up.
“I think you’d have noticed me,” he says dryly.
“I mean online.” I am not losing it. Something doesn’t add up here.
“When?” he replies calmly.
“Anytime!” Worry pools in my gut. “Whenever explains why you have all these things I looked at and bought?”
“You’ll need to be more specific.”
I glare at him. That’s a yes.
“Don’t pout, lapochka,” he says gently. “I’m not sure which response you want. Would you prefer if I’d been watching you and arranged it so I had to kidnap you?”
“No.” That feels like a lie, and we both recognise it.
“I’ve only be investigating you since we met last night. I brought you into my home. I needed to know about you—”
“The type of shampoo I use?” I interrupt, because that does sound very reasonable, if you ignore the level of detail he clearly went to.
“Yes.” He doesn’t flinch. “Amongst other things. I find out secrets, and hidden truths. That’s what I do.
It wasn’t difficult to discover that you wear white cotton underwear with a little bow, read hockey romances, buy more chocolate for a week every month, can’t get coffee stains out of your clothes, and wonder if it’s normal to cry over fictional characters. ”
The cringe is full body. It’s like he’s cracked open my head and knows all my secrets. But there’s no judgement or condescension in his tone.
“And for the record, it’s natural to doubt whether you’ll be a success.”
“Oh god, it’s so bad you know that,” I whisper.
They say data is power or whatever, but I’ve never really thought about how much you could tell about me from my online habits. Honestly, I never imagined anyone would be interested.
“It’s possibly the most innocent thing I’ve discovered about someone I’ve captured,” he says darkly. “Don’t worry.”
Ah. Right.
I stare at the e-reader. It’s generous, but I haven’t forgotten that I’m his prisoner.
“Am I supposed to just entertain myself until…” That’s the bit I’m not sure about. What happens next? He gets tired of having me around and kills me?
He turns and gives me his full attention. “If you’re trying to convince me that you wouldn’t be happy spending the hours lounging on that couch with your e-reader and a cup of hot chocolate, I urge you to remember that I’ve seen the records of your screen use, lapochka.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “I do other things!”
“I’m not judging your hobbies.” His lips quirk up into an almost-smile. “Since you’re not judging mine.”
“I think I am,” I say under my breath.
“Besides, you had better talk to your online reading friends soon.” There’s the click of keys as he types. “They’ll miss you.”