Chapter Seven - Jessa
It’s been seven days, but the fear hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s settled deeper into my bones. Every time I leave work, every time I step off the subway and walk the last blocks home, my heart gets stuck halfway between logic and panic.
I tell myself it’s nothing. I’m overreacting. Maybe I misunderstood what I heard in the garden, maybe the danger was all in my head. Maybe he never recognized me in the boardroom.
Still, my feet move faster on every street. I check behind me, scan for cars idling at the curb, for footsteps that match my own. I clutch my keys so tight that my palm aches. I want to believe I’m safe. That I can still be invisible if I just keep my head down. But deep down, I know I’m lying.
By the time I reach my building, my nerves are buzzing.
I climb the stairs, forcing myself to breathe, each step echoing in the silent hallway.
My fingers fumble as I dig for my keys, metal scraping on metal, sweat making it harder to hold on to anything.
I glance over my shoulder, heart hammering, even though I see nothing there.
The hallway is empty. The building is as quiet as ever.
I fit the key into the lock and push. The door creaks open slower than usual. I stop on the threshold, suddenly cold, a prickling at the back of my neck. It’s too dark. I always leave the lamp on, always, but the apartment is black, thick with shadow.
I step inside, closing the door softly behind me, every muscle taut. My bag slips off my shoulder and lands by my feet.
It hits me all at once—wrong. The air feels heavy, suffocating. The kind of silence that’s waiting for a sound. I stand frozen in the small entryway, eyes struggling to adjust, senses straining for something familiar. I should turn on the lights. I should call someone. I should—
Then I see him. There’s a figure on my couch, a shape where there should be nothing. For a second I think it’s just my imagination, a trick of shadow and fear.
Then he moves. Slowly. Casually, with one arm draped over the backrest, ankle crossed over his knee, dark suit blending with the worn cushions.
The Russian from the party.
My breath catches in my chest. He’s exactly as he was in my nightmares. Even in the darkness I see the hard lines of his jaw, the glint of his eyes. Calm, watchful, unhurried. He looks up at me with a faint, humorless smile, one that never reaches his eyes.
“Not so innocent after all, are you?” His voice is soft, cold. Like he’s already decided how this ends.
Every instinct I have screams at me to run. I don’t even think, I just bolt.
I pivot, body jolting into motion, scrambling for the door I just closed behind me. My hand reaches for the knob, fingers shaking so hard I nearly drop my keys. I’m dimly aware of the quick thud of footsteps behind me, the shift of air as he rises from the couch.
I don’t look back. My mind is a swirl of panic and adrenaline. If I can just make it to the hallway, if I can scream, if I can just get outside—
I’m not fast enough. His hand catches my arm, strong and impossibly steady. He yanks me back with a force that’s controlled but absolute, spinning me around.
My back hits the wall with a dull thud, shoulders pressing into the cheap drywall of my entryway. I gasp, breath gone, palms splayed against the paint.
He pins me there, one forearm across my collarbone, his body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of cologne and danger and cold winter air. His other hand closes gently, almost delicately, around my wrist, keeping me from twisting away. I’m trapped.
The world narrows to the circle of his arms, the thunder of my pulse in my ears, the crushing certainty that there is no escape.
I can’t move. I can barely think. My mouth opens on a strangled sound, but his eyes are already on mine—pale and unblinking, searching my face with that same calm intensity.
We’re inches apart. I can feel the tremor in my own body, the terror that won’t let me breathe, the heat of his gaze burning a path across my skin. The apartment is so silent that every ragged breath sounds like a scream.
My mind claws for something to say, some way out, but no words come. I stare up at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering, pinned against the wall by a man who’s been haunting my thoughts for days.
He doesn’t say a word. He just holds me there, letting the fear and realization sink in, making sure I understand there’s nowhere left to run.
My chest heaves against his forearm. My thoughts race, wild and desperate. I try to twist away, but he presses me firmer against the wall, his grip like iron. Fear explodes through me, sharp as broken glass. I force my voice out, shaking but loud enough to echo in the dark.
“Please let me go. You can’t do this. I haven’t told anyone, I swear!”
His face is so close I can see the shadows move over his eyes. He doesn’t even blink. His tone is glacial, almost bored. “You expect me to believe that? After you ran?”
I shake my head, breath scraping at my throat. “You’re scaring me. Please. I’ll forget everything, I’ll quit, I’ll leave New York, whatever you want, just let me go.”
He doesn’t answer. His hand tightens on my wrist, sending sparks of pain up my arm. I gasp, trying to shove him, to find any weakness. “I didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t just—”
He leans in, his breath cold against my cheek. “Quiet.”
The word lands heavy. My head pounds, vision blurring. His arm shifts, pinning me by the shoulders. I gasp again, air cut off by the pressure on my chest. My lips part, mouth opening on a strangled whimper as I start to choke.
“I can’t—breathe—” I manage, clawing at his sleeve.
His eyes narrow, unreadable. He watches me struggle, unmoved for a heartbeat too long. My body thrashes, desperate, panic overriding all sense. He finally eases his weight just enough for air to burn back into my lungs.
I sag, shaking, eyes filling with tears. He doesn’t release me.
“Don’t try to run,” he warns, voice low.
Something inside me snaps. I twist hard, using my whole body. My shoulder grinds painfully against the wall, but I manage to duck under his arm, scraping my cheek against the rough fabric of his jacket. I hit the floor, scramble sideways, shoving past his legs.
I’m up and sprinting across the living room before I know what I’m doing, feet slipping on the hardwood.
The kitchen is only steps away. I dive for the drawer.
The top one, left side, where I keep the cheap little knives I use to open packages.
My hand closes on the handle of the biggest one I own. I whirl, knife up, heart in my mouth.
He’s already there. He moves fast. Unnaturally fast. He’s between me and the door before I can blink. He doesn’t look afraid. If anything, there’s a glint of amusement behind the ice in his eyes, like he’s seen this a hundred times before.
I raise the knife, voice cracking. “Stay away from me!”
He steps forward, not breaking stride. I swing, wild and clumsy, slashing through the air. He catches my wrist mid-arc, the movement effortless. His grip is bruising now, unforgiving. I try to wrench free, but he twists my arm, thumb digging into the nerves until the knife clatters to the floor.
I scream, high and broken. He kicks the blade away, then grabs both my wrists, pinning them behind my back in one motion. My body bows, pulled tight against his chest. I thrash, kicking at his shins, but he absorbs the blows, not even flinching.
“Stop. Fighting.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but it slices through the chaos.
“Let me go! Please, I’m harmless.” My pleas dissolve into sobs. I struggle harder, but he’s too strong.
He spins me around, shoving me back against the refrigerator, pinning me with his hips and one broad hand on my shoulder. His other hand wraps both my wrists, holding them easily in his fist. My breath comes in shallow gasps, panic burning in my lungs.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I shake my head, turning my face away. I can’t bear to see his eyes. I can’t bear to see what’s coming.
He shifts his grip, forcing my chin up until I meet his gaze. “You think I want to hurt you? You think I came here for that?”
I can’t answer. Tears streak my cheeks. I try to twist free, but his grip only tightens. “You broke into my apartment,” I gasp, voice trembling. “You scared me half to death. What else do you call it?”
He leans in closer, so close I can feel the heat of his anger, the steadiness beneath it. “If I wanted to hurt you, Jessa, you wouldn’t be standing right now.”
My body shudders. I close my eyes, wishing I could disappear. “Please,” I whisper. “I don’t know anything. I’m nobody. I just want to live my life.”
He holds me pinned for another agonizing moment, the muscles in his arm flexing with restraint. My wrists ache in his grip.
For a second, neither of us moves. I feel his heartbeat, steady and slow. He watches me, searching my face for some answer only he knows. My breath hitches. I’m trapped, and we both know it.
The kitchen is silent except for our breathing, ragged and uneven. His hand stays tight on my wrists, his body caging me in. Every instinct tells me to fight, but I have nothing left.
All I can do is stare back at him, wide-eyed and terrified, and pray for a way out.
My body shakes in his hold, wrists aching, heart beating so hard I think it might break my ribs. I try to force the words out, desperate, voice quivering. “I promise I won’t run again. I won’t. Please, I just want to go home. I’ll forget everything. You don’t have to do this.”
He studies me for a long moment, his grip unyielding. I search his face for a flicker of mercy, for anything that might soften him. His eyes are colder than ever. My promise means nothing to him.
Without warning, his hand shifts from my shoulder to my throat. The pressure is immediate, iron and final. His palm closes around my neck, fingers squeezing until my airway collapses under his grip.
My mouth falls open in shock, a thin gasp escaping before there’s no more air at all.
My legs kick weakly, boots scraping uselessly against the cabinet.
My fingers claw at his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but he doesn’t flinch.
My vision sparks at the edges, gray and shrinking, the world narrowing to the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says quietly, voice almost gentle as everything else disappears.
Blackness presses in. My body sags, limp and useless. His hand is the last thing I feel—unforgiving, steady—before my knees buckle. The kitchen spins. I don’t even remember falling, only the hard, cold floor beneath my cheek, and the distant echo of my own heartbeat fading away.