14. Eva
EVA
The back door swings open without warning, breaking the quiet.
A teenage boy wanders in like he owns the place.
He’s tall and skinny, with messy, curly, dirty-blond hair. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a Chicago Reapers T-shirt.
Everyone in this house seems to have one.
Greta stands at the stove, frying bacon. The kid walks right up to her, still half-asleep.
“Don’t,” she says without looking up.
He reaches for a piece anyway.
Greta smacks his hand with the spatula.
“Hey!” he protests, jerking back. “I was just?—”
“You were just about to lose a finger,” she snaps. “Go sit down.”
He grins, rubs his hand, and sits down.
“Worth it.”
“You’re going to burn yourself one day, you little idiot.”
I can hear the affection in her voice, even as she scolds him.
I notice it in the soft look in her eyes.
And in the slight curve of her mouth.
I watch them closely, trying to figure out who he is.
Son? Grandson? He must be someone close to her to act like that.
“Hungry,” he mutters around a mouthful of bacon a second later.
Then he starts blowing air through his teeth right away because the bacon is clearly scorching hot.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t smile.
The kid notices me and freezes.
His eyes go a little wide.
“Oh,” he says. “Didn’t know Greta was training somebody new.”
Panic hits me so fast that I automatically grip the knife tighter.
I glance at Greta.
Back at him.
My heart jumps.
Here it is.
The moment.
I could tell him.
I’m not new. I was taken. I’m held here against my will. Help me.
The words rise up quickly, burning in my throat.
But I don’t say them.
Because I don’t know what would happen if I do.
So I just look down and keep cutting vegetables.
“Yeah,” the kid says after a second. “You’re new, right?”
I duck my head and give a small nod.
He relaxes immediately, as if that answers everything.
“Cool,” he says. “Welcome to the chaos.”
He steps closer, wipes his hand on his pajama pants, and holds it out to me. “I’m Lucian.”
I look at his hand for a moment before taking it.
“Eva,” I say clearly and deliberately.
Maybe the name means something to him.
Maybe it sparks recognition.
Anything.
His grip is warm and easy, with no tension or suspicion.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t react.
Doesn’t recognize the name.
Nothing.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, smiling like he really means it.
The realization hits me harder than I thought it would.
He genuinely has no idea who I am.
No idea what happened to me.
No idea what's happening inside this house.
Greta doesn’t react at all.
She just keeps cooking, as if nothing unusual were happening.
Lucian lets go of my hand and starts talking again right away.
“Did you see the game last night?” he asks Greta, already excited. “Hudson played like a beast. It was crazy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him play like that.”
Greta snorts.
“I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that.”
I blink, surprised.
Game?
It takes me a moment to catch up.
Then I remember the muffled broadcast.
I remember the voices I heard when I was blindfolded and dragged through the house to that torture room.
The excited younger voice must have been his.
Could he be Martin Cross’s son?
“He stopped shots like a madman. I think he broke some kind of record.” Lucian keeps going, “Seriously. The other team couldn't get anything past him. After the game, someone told him he played the game of his life, and he just shrugged and said, ‘It's my job.’”
“That sounds like Hudson,” Greta says.
I force myself to keep a straight face, even though my pulse speeds up.
Hudson.
The scarred man who dragged me out of an alley, pinned me to a bed with his hand around my throat, and promised to kill me.
Apparently, he's also a professional hockey player.
“You a hockey fan?” I ask, glancing at Lucian.
If this kid is willing to talk, maybe I’ll finally learn something useful.
Lucian lights up instantly.
“Oh, yeah. My brother is the goalie for the Reapers.”
Brother.
Something twists in my stomach.
“He had a shutout last night,” Lucian goes on, talking so fast his words run together. “Stopped like forty-something shots. It was unbelievable. He was everywhere, standing on his head the whole time.”
He starts gesturing with his hands, acting out saves I don't understand.
“Everyone kept trying, and he just kept stopping them.”
I nod as if I know what he's talking about.
I don’t.
I’m still stuck on the fact the man holding me prisoner plays professional hockey.
And that this kid is his brother.
Lucian couldn't be more different.
He’s open and easygoing, full of life in a way scarred-face isn’t.
“He should have been the first star,” Lucian says, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don’t even know how?—”
“Jeez, kid, can you give it a rest? It was just one game.”
The voice hits before I see him.
Low.
Rough.
Too familiar.
Hudson steps into the kitchen and stops dead.
His face hardens right away, jaw tight, eyes narrowing like I’m a nightmare he didn’t expect to see in daylight.
For one charged second, nobody moves.
Then his attention snaps to Greta.
“What the fuck is she doing in here?” His voice is sharp. “With a knife?”
Lucian glances between us, confusion slowly settling in.
“She’s new…kitchen staff?” he says uncertainly.
Greta opens her mouth to answer, but she never gets the chance.
Frankenstein storms toward me, his scarred face twisted with anger, blue eyes locked on the knife in my hand.
His fingers clamp around my elbow.
“Drop it.”
I don’t.
If anything, I hold on tighter.
For one dangerous second, I picture driving the blade straight into his stomach.
Watching that cold control finally break.
He glances at me once and knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Before I can react, his other hand closes around my wrist.
Pain shoots through my arm, and I drop the knife. It clatters on the floor, echoing through the kitchen.
He doesn’t release me.
He keeps his grip tight on my wrist, his other hand still on my elbow, as if he thinks I’ll go for the knife again.
Behind him, Greta lets out a quiet breath.
Lucian looks completely lost.
Still, I raise my chin.
“If you’re going to break it,” I say coldly, “just get it over with.”
His jaw clenches.
Then he’s dragging me out of the kitchen before anybody can say another word.
Fast.
Rough.
I stumble, trying to keep up, pain shooting through my stomach each time he pulls me forward.
“Hudson—what the hell?” Lucian calls after us.
Hudson ignores him completely.
“Let go of me,” I snap, twisting against his grip.
It doesn’t slow him down at all.
When we reach the room, he shoves the door open, drags me inside, and lets go so hard I stumble back and catch myself on the wall.
Then he’s there, looming right in front of me.
He grabs my elbow again, his grip so tight it makes my heart race.
“What game are you playing, Sorenson?” he snarls.
“I’m not.”
I’m strangely glad my voice sounds sharp, not scared.
“Greta cleaned up my wounds this morning,” I continue. “She gave me something to do, so I was helping in the kitchen. I was chopping vegetables.”
His jaw flexes.
Then, unexpectedly, he lets go of me and takes a step back.
“What wounds?”
The question surprises me.
I pause, then lift my shirt just enough to show the bandages around my stomach.
Then I hold up my hand so he can see the thick gauze on my middle finger.
His attention catches on the bruise on my face.
“Martin,” he says flatly.
I nod once.
“He recorded it,” I say quietly. “Said it was for my father.”
I feel sick just thinking about it.
“Some of it got…weird.”
Hudson goes completely still.
A heavy silence stretches between us.
He’s so close that it feels like there’s barely enough space for both of us in the room.
Something about the way he looks at me makes me uneasy.
Conflicted, maybe.
Or maybe I just want to believe there’s still some humanity in him.
Either way, the feeling hits me before I can stop it.
My body reacts in ways I can’t control.
And somehow, that makes me hate myself more.
Maybe my mind tries to survive by turning danger into attraction.
Because none of this makes sense.
Every second he looks at me feels heavy, like it gets under my skin and stays there.
That thought makes me feel almost as sick as everything else in this place.
Still, I won’t back down from him.
I meet his gaze head-on.
Even though every instinct tells me not to.
He stays completely still, hiding every reaction behind pure control, and watches me with those cold blue eyes, like I’m a problem he didn’t expect.
Then he says, “I don’t know what the fuck you were playing in that kitchen, but you need to remember that you’re a means to an end.”
His words hit me harder than I want them to.
“Martin might be sending proof of life,” he continues, “but you’re not going back to Jonas unless it’s in a body bag.”
My breath catches.
He leans in a little, just enough for me to feel it.
“Don’t try to get cute,” he adds. “And stay the fuck away from my little brother.”
“Then maybe keep him away from me,” I say quietly.
For a moment, I see his control slip.
But it’s gone just as fast.
Then he steps back.
He turns and walks out without another word.
The door slams behind him.
I stand there, breathing hard, my arm still tingling where he grabbed me.
My body is still on edge.
My mind races.
Lucian.
Hudson.
Martin.
Nothing in this house happens by accident.
Something is going on beneath all of this.
And somehow, I’m trapped right in the middle of it.