Chapter 3
HOLLY
I have to call the police.
But in the worst poor timing ever, my phone has died, and the cab driver doesn’t want to hear about a murder and keeps shaking his head and telling me I’m mistaken when I tell him what I saw.
So I have to wait until I get to my apartment to make a call from the landline.
But when I try it, the line is dead. Then I remember hearing from one of the guests at the gallery how an earlier storm has taken out the phone lines.
I put the phone down and run my hands through my hair, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I just saw a man get murdered in an alleyway. Saw his blood spreading in the rain, turning the puddles red.
Goosebumps crawl across my skin. I pace the floor. My small apartment feels like a trap closing around me.
Think, Holly.
In hindsight, I should’ve had the cab driver take me to the police station instead of here. But I was panicked and confused and wasn’t thinking straight.
So take a cab to the station now. Then get out of town for a few days.
Hands shaking, I start to throw clothes into a suitcase, not bothering to fold anything. Jeans, sweaters, toiletries. Everything goes in haphazardly. I just need to move, to do something, to get the hell out of Seattle before…
Before what? Before he finds me?
I press my palms against the dresser to try to steady my breathing, and the face of the handsome stranger flashes behind my eyelids. His piercing blue eyes tracking me with the focus of a predator spotting prey.
You're being paranoid, I try to reassure myself. He doesn't know who you are. Doesn't know where you live.
But my body doesn't believe the lie. Every instinct I have screams that I’m in danger.
He knew your name.
After slipping on a pair of sneakers, I zip the suitcase closed and grab my purse, mentally cataloging my escape route. Down the service elevator to avoid the lobby, out the side entrance, and grab a cab to the police station.
But when I pull my suitcase across the floor toward the door, I hear it.
A soft click.
The sound of my apartment door unlocking.
I freeze, ice flooding my veins.
It swings open slowly, and he fills the doorway.
The handsome stranger with the bright blue eyes.
And they're locked on me.
"Hello, Holly." His voice is a low rumble, wrapping around my name in a way that makes my stomach twist.
"How do you know my name?" My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind him.
He moves with predatory grace, each step measured and purposeful. "I’m a very resourceful man.”
“I didn’t see anything,” I say.
He tilts his head. “We both know that’s a lie.”
I back away from him. My heart beats so hard, it’s like it’s trying to escape my body.
"What do you want?" I try to sound brave, but my voice shakes.
His gaze travels over me slowly, starting at my face and moving down. I'm suddenly hyperaware of what I'm wearing, just the simple black dress, now wrinkled and damp from the rain and sweat.
"You're coming with me." It isn't a question. It's a statement delivered in that low voice that does something to my insides.
"Like hell I am." The words come out stronger than I feel.
One dark eyebrow arches. "I’m not asking.”
“And I’m not coming.”
“You witnessed something tonight. Something that puts you in considerable danger."
"From you."
"From many people. I'm actually the safest option available to you right now, malyshka."
"Go to hell. I'm not going anywhere with you. I'll scream."
"Not for long,” The warning in his voice sends fear spiraling through me. “Your choice, Holly. Walk out with me quietly, or I carry you. Either way, you're leaving this room with me."
My heart hammers against my ribs. I’m low on options. My phone is dead. There is no back door to escape through. And I’m three floors up. I briefly consider the bathroom but quickly realize no lock is going to stop a man his size.
I'm out of options.
"You don’t need to do this," I say. "I didn't see anything. I don't know anything. I'm nobody."
Something flickers in his eyes. "No. You're not nobody."
The way he says it sounds almost meaningful. But before I can process that thought, he moves.
And so I run.
It's a stupid and futile attempt, but my instinct takes over. I lunge for the door, my fingers just grazing the handle before his arm wraps around my waist and yanks me back against his body.
"No.” I scream, driving my elbow back into his ribs.
He grunts but doesn't release me. If anything, his grip tightens. I can feel every hard plane of his body pressed against my back and it’s all solid muscle and immovable strength.
"Let me go.” I kick backward, aiming for his shin.
I know self-defense. My parents were fanatical about me knowing how to protect myself.
My heel connects, but he just shifts his weight and lifts me off my feet entirely. I thrash in his arms, clawing at his forearm, but it's like fighting a granite statue.
"Stop." His voice is low in my ear, that slight accent curling around the word. "You're only going to hurt yourself."
"I'll hurt you first.”
I manage to sink my nails into his wrist, drawing blood. He hisses but spins me around, pressing me back against the wall. His body cages mine, one hand catching both my wrists and pinning them above my head.
We're nose to nose. Close enough that I can see flecks of silver in his eyes, can feel his breath on my lips.
"Fight me, if it makes you feel better, malyshka." His voice has dropped to a rough whisper. "But you won’t win. You need to accept that. Make peace with it. Because you’re coming with me."
I glare up at him, hating him. Hating that less than an hour ago I was fantasizing what he looked like beneath his suit.
Shame floods through me. Because even now my body is responding to the close proximity of him.
And I hate myself for it.
"Fuck you," I spit, but my voice comes out breathless.
"In due course, malyshka." He tilts his head and a smirk tugs at his mouth. His free hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "But right now, we have somewhere to be."
I try to jerk my face away, but his grip is firm. He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in those vibrant eyes.
Then he releases my wrists and steps back, pulling a phone from his suit jacket.
"Bring the car around. We're leaving now."
He pockets the phone and grabs one of my coats from the coat rack, holding it out to me. "Put this on. It's cold outside."
The mundane courtesy of the gesture is so at odds with the situation that I almost laugh.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I carry you out in just that dress. Your choice, but I think you'll prefer the coat."
He's giving me the illusion of choice. We both know it. But some small part of me knows that compliance is smarter than resistance right now. At least until I see an opportunity to escape.
I take the coat with shaking hands and put it on.
"Smart girl," he murmurs.
"Don't patronize me."
That almost-smile appears again. "Wouldn't dream of it, malyshka."
I don’t say anything more. I won’t give him the pleasure of hearing the fear in my voice.
He picks up my suitcase with one hand and gestures to the door with the other. "After you."
I walk ahead of him, hyperaware of his presence behind me. He's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that if I stopped suddenly, he'd be pressed against my back again.
The hallway is empty.
We take the service elevator as I'd planned to do, but instead of freedom, it's taking me to my own personal hell.
In the enclosed space, the tension is suffocating. I keep my eyes on the descending floor numbers, but I can feel him watching me. Can hear his breathing, steady and controlled, while mine is ragged.
"You don't have to do this," I try one last time. "Whatever you think I saw, whatever you think I know, I'll forget it. I'll never tell anyone. I'll leave Seattle and never come back."
"You could promise me your silence." His voice is low. "And you might even mean it. But promises are easily broken when the right pressure is applied. Threats to family. To friends. To yourself."
"I don't have any family," I snap.
It’s a half-truth. My parents died in a car accident when I was twelve. The only person I have left is Nana, the neighbor who raised me. We’re not blood related, but she’s family, and I don’t want this asshole knowing about her.
The elevator doors open into the basement parking garage where a black Mercedes SUV idles near the elevator, windows tinted so dark I can't see inside. A man stands beside it. He’s tall, muscular, and dressed in all black.
His face is hard and scarred, the face of someone who's seen violence and dealt it out with equal measure, no doubt.
"Boss," the man says, opening the back door.
My captor's hand lands on the small of my back, guiding me forward. His touch is firm and possessive. I twist my spine trying to shake him off, but his grip only tightens—a silent reminder that I'm not in control here, no matter how much I want to be.
"In," he says simply.
I look at the open car door, at the dark interior, and know that stepping inside will change everything. Once I'm in that car, I'm truly his captive. Truly at his mercy.
"Please," I whisper, hating how broken I sound. "Please don't do this."
His jaw tightens. For a moment, just a fleeting second, I think I see something like regret in his eyes.
Then it's gone.
"Get in the car, Holly. Don't make me force you."
I want to run. Want to scream. Want to fight.
“If I climb into this car, then I’m dead.”
“No, Holly, you’re dead if you don’t.”
His warning shoots fear into every nerve and fiber of my being. I don’t doubt he means it.
So I climb into the car.
He slides in beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine. The door closes with a final-sounding thunk, and the driver pulls away from the curb.