Chapter 3
three
Emilia
I wake with a start, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling above me. It takes exactly three seconds for reality to crash down—the heist, the alley, Clark . I'm lying on a narrow bed in a locked room, prisoner to a man whose cold blue eyes haunted what little sleep I managed to get. Sunlight filters through the barred window, highlighting dust motes that dance in the air like tiny stars. In the harsh light of day, I should be focusing on escape, on survival. Instead, my traitor mind keeps replaying the way Clark's voice dropped low when he said my name, the heat of his hand around my wrist, the dangerous promise in his gaze.
I sit up, pushing tangled hair from my face. The books I arranged last night still stand in a neat row on the bedside table—my small attempt to create order in chaos. I run my fingers along their spines, drawing comfort from their familiar presence.
The room looks different in daylight. Less ominous, but no less a prison. The walls are bare concrete, painted a faded blue-gray. The furniture is sparse but sturdy—bed, table, chair, small dresser. The bathroom is little more than a closet with a toilet, sink, and shower stall, but it's clean. Someone has put thought into this space, designed it specifically for keeping people contained.
How many others have been locked in here before me?
I splash cold water on my face and attempt to tame my hair with my fingers. My reflection in the small mirror above the sink shows shadows under my eyes and a pallor to my skin that makes my freckles stand out starkly. I look younger than my nineteen years, more vulnerable. I hate it.
A key turns in the lock, and I freeze, heart leaping into my throat. I quickly retreat to the bed, sitting with my back against the wall, knees drawn up like a shield.
The door swings open, and Clark fills the frame. He's even more imposing in daylight—tall and broad-shouldered, his presence seeming to shrink the room. He's dressed simply in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest, revealing the muscled contours beneath. Tattoos peek out from beneath his sleeves, crawling up his neck. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's run his hands through it repeatedly.
He carries a tray with what smells like coffee and food. My stomach growls embarrassingly in response.
"You're awake," he says, voice rough like he hasn't used it yet this morning.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He sets the tray on the table, then stands back, studying me with those penetrating blue eyes. I fight the urge to fidget under his gaze.
"Did you sleep?" he asks.
The question surprises me—it sounds almost like concern. "Not much."
"Understandable." He gestures to the tray. "Eat."
It's not a suggestion. I unfold my legs and move to the chair, conscious of his eyes tracking my every movement. The tray holds coffee, toast, eggs, and a banana. Simple but thoughtful.
"Thank you," I say automatically, manners ingrained by my mother surfacing even in captivity.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Well-brought-up little thing, aren't you?"
I take a sip of coffee to avoid responding, surprised to find it prepared exactly how I prefer—light with no sugar. It's a coincidence, it has to be, but it unsettles me nonetheless.
"Your mother must be proud," he continues, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "Raising such a polite daughter."
My cup freezes halfway to my lips. "My mother," I repeat, anxiety flooding back. "She's expecting me home. She's sick—she needs her medication, and my sister can't?—"
"It's been taken care of," he interrupts.
I stare at him. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother received a text from your phone last night. You're staying with a friend from the library for a few days, helping her recover from surgery."
Horror washes through me. "You went through my phone?"
"Of course I did." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I know everything about you now, Emilia West. Twenty-six Maple Street, apartment 3B. Graduated high school two years ago with honors. Working at the library while taking night classes at the community college. Mother with MS, younger sister still in high school. Father left when you were twelve." His eyes never leave mine as he recites the details of my life. "You live a very small existence, little librarian."
I should be terrified by how thoroughly he's invaded my privacy. Instead, I feel a strange rush that he's bothered to learn so much about me. That he's interested enough to memorize these details.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, my voice steadier than I expect.
He pushes off from the wall, approaching slowly, deliberately. I remain seated, refusing to show how his proximity affects me.
"That's the question, isn't it?" He braces his hands on the table, leaning down until his face is level with mine. Close enough that I can see the darker flecks of navy in his ice-blue eyes, smell the mint on his breath. "What do I want from Emilia West?"
Our faces are inches apart. I should be shrinking back, should be terrified. But something hot and unfamiliar curls in my stomach, crawling up my spine, making it hard to breathe.
"I don't understand," I whisper.
"Don't you?" His voice drops lower. "I think you do. I think you feel it too."
My cheeks heat. "Feel what?"
He reaches out, tracing one finger along my jawline, the touch feather-light but scorching. "This," he says. "This thing between us."
Our fingers brush as I instinctively reach up to push his hand away, and I feel a spark—like static from the dry air, but it jolts through me with unexpected force. I pull back as if burned.
Clark straightens, satisfaction evident in the slight curve of his mouth. "I'm offering you a deal, Emilia."
I swallow hard. "What kind of deal?"
"One night." He says it simply, but the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. "One night with me, and then you're free to go. Back to your small life, your sick mother, your dusty books. With the promise that you'll never speak of what you saw in that alley."
My mind goes blank. One night. With him. The implication is unmistakable.
"You can't be serious," I say, but my voice sounds distant, detached.
"I rarely joke." His eyes travel over me, a physical caress that makes my skin tingle where his gaze touches. "One night of complete surrender, Emilia. That's my price for your freedom."
I should be outraged. Should be screaming, fighting, demanding to be released. But all I can focus on is the way my name sounds in his mouth, the way his proposal sends heat flooding between my thighs.
"I've never..." I start, then stop, cheeks burning hotter.
His expression softens fractionally. "I know."
Of course he knows. He's probably read it in every anxious glance, every awkward movement. My inexperience must be painfully obvious to someone like him.
"Why?" I ask. "Why would you want...that...from me?"
"Because from the moment I saw you in that alley, I haven't been able to think of anything else." The raw honesty in his voice startles me. "I want to be your first, Emilia."
My breath hitches. No one has ever wanted me like this—with this intensity, this focus. Boys my age fumble and stammer, their interest superficial and easily diverted. Clark's desire is something else entirely. Something that both terrifies and thrills me.
"I can't," I whisper, though something inside me screams the opposite.
"Can't?" He arches an eyebrow. "Or won't?"
I think of my life before last night—quiet, predictable, safe. Wake up, care for Mom, go to work, study, sleep. Repeat. I've never taken a real risk, never stepped outside the narrow boundaries of my responsibilities.
"I don't know you," I try again.
"You know enough," he counters. "You know I can hurt you, but I haven't. You know I could have killed you, but I didn't." He pauses, eyes intense. "You know I want you. And you want me too."
The accusation hangs between us. I want to deny it, but the lie sticks in my throat.
"It doesn't matter what I want," I say instead. "I can't just...do that. With a stranger. With someone who's keeping me prisoner."
"Not a prisoner," he corrects. "A guest with limited options."
Despite everything, a surprised laugh escapes me. His eyes brighten at the sound, something like triumph flashing in them.
"There she is," he murmurs. "There's a fire in you, little librarian. I saw it when you stood your ground in that alley. When you demanded I use your name."
He's right. There is a part of me—a part I've carefully suppressed beneath responsibility and routine—that craves something more. Something dangerous. Something like Clark.
"Think about it," he says, stepping back. "You have until tonight to decide."
He moves toward the door, then pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. "Just so you know—if you say no, I'll respect that. But I won't let you go. Not yet. So consider your options carefully, Emilia."
The door closes behind him, the lock clicking into place with finality.
I remain seated, food forgotten, mind racing. Was that truly a choice he offered? Freedom for...my virginity? The thought should disgust me. Should make me hate him. But all I can think about is how it felt when he touched my face, the heat in his eyes when he said he wanted to be my first.
I press my thighs together, trying to ease the unfamiliar ache building there. What's happening to me? Is this Stockholm syndrome, developing an attachment to my captor? Or is it something that was already there, waiting to be awakened—this craving for danger, for the unknown, for a man who looks at me like I'm something precious to be devoured?
I've spent my entire life being good, being responsible. When Dad left, I became the substitute parent, holding our family together while Mom's condition worsened. I've never complained, never rebelled. Never even considered putting my own desires first.
But Clark makes me want to be selfish. Makes me want to grab something for myself, just once.
One night. One night of complete surrender, and then back to my life, to responsibility, to safety.
I move to the small window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The compound seems quiet outside, no sign of the other men from last night. Just a dusty yard surrounded by a high fence, beyond which I can see trees and open sky. Freedom.
But as I close my eyes, it's not freedom I see. It's Clark's face, those blue eyes burning into mine. His hands, strong and capable, touching me in ways I've only imagined in my most secret dreams.
One night.
I don’t know how much time passes, but the door opens again, and I turn quickly, heart leaping.
It's him, standing there as if my thoughts summoned him. He fills the doorway, powerful and beautiful in his danger, and the decision crystalizes in my mind with startling clarity.
I want this. I want him. God help me, I've never wanted anything more.
"Yes," I say, before he can speak. "One night."
The hunger that flashes across his face makes my knees weak. I've never felt power like this—the knowledge that I affect this dangerous man as much as he affects me.
"Good girl," he says softly, and something inside me melts at the approval in his voice.
I've just made a deal with the devil. And all I can think is that I can't wait for tonight.