5. Riley
Riley
T he Russian doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t pause to check a direction, second-guess a turn, or wonder if dragging me through back alleys is maybe a felony.
He moves. Long, deliberate strides, carving through the night with the brutal elegance of a panther.
And let’s be clear—I’m no pixie surviving on pumpkin seeds and tofu.
I’ve got curves, hips, and breasts that are perpetually one pizza away from taking someone’s eye out.
Seriously, these babies have a mind of their own. Strapped down for your protection.
The fact that he carries me like I weigh nothing?
Frankly, it’s a little impressive.
And a whole lot infuriating.
I squirm in that awkward, clumsy, worm-on-a-hook kind of way.
“Put me down.”
He ignores me, strolling with the relaxed confidence of a man who sleeps like a baby after burying his latest secret six feet underground.
Nervous energy bubbles up my throat, building, buzzing—until my mouth blurts out whatever my brain lands on.
“Put. Me. Down. I’m too heavy.”
Classic.
Nothing says “help, I’m being kidnapped” like body image issues.
“You are not heavy,” he growls, irritated, as if the suggestion personally offends him.
To prove his point, his hands shift—gliding along my hips, sliding up my sides in one slow, purposeful drag.
So comforting. So intimate.
Hmm . It’s almost easy to forget this is the same guy who dropped two bodies less than an hour ago.
My lady parts, unfortunately, do not forget. They light up like a jet-engine ignition.
God. Was Kennedy right?
Do I actually have a thing for bad boys and the absolute worst taste in men?
He pauses, scanning the shadows, like he’s checking if we’re being followed.
My body tenses.
His hand brushes down my back. It’s slow and calming. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs, moving on.
“Why are you even carrying me like this?” I snap. “So I don’t see your face?”
“Yes.”
Cue brain. Full. Blown. Overdrive.
My fingers absently trace the sleek edge of his belt. What’s he hiding?
Scars? Tattoos? The face of a man who’s definitely on a watchlist?
I don’t know.
And with his hand resting—way too comfortably—on the small of my back, I want to.
What is this villain’s origin story?
He walks another step.
Then another.
Turns down the next dark alley like he memorized his post-mortem daily commute ages ago—complete with routes to avoid people, CCTV, and apparently, my last shred of hope.
And, of course, still no one.
Hello, Chicago? 9-1-1—ring a bell?
Oh. Right.
In my sister’s mad dash to marry the Lord of Darkness, Kennedy and her overly eccentric husband just had to have a candlelit wedding.
At midnight.
And unlike the nightlife of Milan, Rome, or Naples, where people drink, dance, and chain-smoke until the wee hours of dawn, Chicagoans prefer to sleep through the white noise of active crimes in progress.
It’s just a little ambiance to doze off to. Gunshots, sirens, and me getting carted away like this week’s Costco haul.
I wriggle, trying to get my bearings. But upside-down, shoulder-slung, I’m having a hard time making out anything except this Russian’s impossibly firm ass.
Not exactly ideal conditions.
I know we’re not heading back. That much is clear.
And the farther we go, the more I imagine the soft echo of a chainsaw buzzing in the distance.
I swallow hard. Curse my love of true crime .
And hell no I’m not becoming the next headliner in someone’s basement podcast.
Urgency takes the helm as I fumble at the zip tie. Because wherever we’re headed, it’s definitely not the local library.
Not unless the romance section doubles as a kidnappers-and-stalkers support group.
The village caveman tromps me through the night, down every back alley in the city.
I bounce against his shoulder like a sack.
A sack of churning indignation and low-boiling rage.
“Look, Darth Vader, this would be much easier if I just walked.”
And maybe give me a sporting chance to run screaming into the night.
Silent stomping.
“I’m pretty sure there’s a swamp missing an ogre right about now,” I taunt, setting my frustration free like a toddler with scissors.
“Quiet!” A crack lands on my ass hard and swift, exploding into color and light, and instant, cringeworthy wetness.
I go silent.
Stunned.
For a long, long while, I wallow in the shame of two horrifying truths:
One—this can’t be the end.
I’ve got way too much life left to live. An entire bucket list of things I haven’t done. Regrets I have yet to experience…
Which brings me to two — what in the actual fuck?
He spanked me.
And I gush like a broken fire hydrant at a summer block party.
When dampness presses past my panties, curves along my inner thighs, and begins a slow path down my leg, I bite my lip.
At least from this angle—nose-to-ass, courtesy of Mr. Quasimodo—he can’t see the sheer horror painted across my face in bright red waves of mortifying heat.
It moves fast, and I squirm—supremely uncomfortable knowing that any second now, he’s going to see it. Feel it. His hand is positioned perfectly to notice the subtle cascade of a slip-and-slide trickling down my leg.
This is how I die. Horny and humiliated on the broad shoulders of a mammoth Russian.
I fidget again. “Are you going to put me down?”
His hold only tightens. “Well, well, well. Quiet for five whole minutes.” He makes a hard right at the street. “Pardon me while I call Guinness.”
This time, I wiggle harder. “Testa di cazzo… ” I mutter under my breath.
He steps halt abruptly. “Dickhead?”
His tongue drips with salty amusement. Apparently, a tongue that’s well versed in Italian.
“Such language,” he muses.
“Eager for another spank on that pretty ass, Zapretnaya? ”
No.
No, I am not.
And—what the hell is Zapretnaya ?
In polar opposition to my nature, I bite back the retort locked and loaded in the chamber, shut my eyes, and brace for impact.
But…nothing comes.
No sting. No heat. No smug correction.
He just starts moving again.
Unbothered. Quiet.
Like the moment never happened.
And I hate it. I can take a lot. Hell, I’ve taken worse.
My step-monster’s weapon of choice varied. But locking me in a closet, it was always the silence that lingered.
The thing about silence is it doesn’t echo. It seeps. And the longer it stretches, the heavier it gets.
A crushing weight on a glass vase—pressing down, cracking me from all sides—until it’s only a matter of time before I shatter.
And the ache, the emptiness of missing Kennedy and Da, and the pathetic need not to be ignored by a psychotic stranger.
Everything burns like a million tiny paper cuts bathed in tequila.
It’s too much.
Too much…
I channel every ounce of pent-up pissed-offedness into the zip tie cutting into my wrists—and bite. Hard.
Gnawing at it like a feral animal. Until blood rips from my skin. From the tie. From my teeth.
Not because it’ll necessarily work…but because fighting feels better than falling apart.
And I am so goddamned close to falling apart.
“Leave it.”
His growl vibrates through his body and into my chest. Still, I don’t stop. I never can.
“This is your last warning.”
Still chewing.
Still pretending my bones aren’t shaking.
His steps slow.
“Touch it again, and there will be consequences.”
“I’m not,” I lie as convincing as possible with my teeth wrapped around the freaking iron shackle around my wrists.
What can I say? Obedience has never been my strong suit.
And what do they make zip ties out of? Titanium?
He taps a finger against my thigh, thoughtful. Too thoughtful.
“That little lie of yours… mmm .” The rumble that follows could register on the Richter scale. “It tastes like defiance… and desire. Two of my favorite flavors.”
Okay.
That stops me mid-bite. And almost costs me a tooth.
I’m still reeling when I hear it. The unmistakable click of a lock.
He’s opening a door.
A back entrance tucked into a brick building, and a door which looks like it was ripped straight off a vintage bank vault.
With me still slung over his shoulder like stolen cargo, he steps into a room so dark it swallows everything whole.
The door seals behind us, cutting off the world with a single click.
Along with it, my pulse, my oxygen, and my very last chance to escape.