6. Riley
Riley
D arkness eats me alive.
Before I can scream, he speaks, and my breath shatters in my throat.
“It’ll only be dark for a moment.”
His accent dulls beneath a thick layer of calm. It’s that low, velvety warmth I imagine clings to monsters and madmen when they’re most in their element.
And yes, I’ve imagined them. Too many times to count.
When the darkness doesn’t ease up, dizziness fractures the air. My lungs seize. My heart thrashes wildly against the cage of my chest.
And then—I’m airborne. For half a second.
Before I land.
Not hard. Gentle. Feather soft.
A bed, I think.
The silence stretches tight, crawling across my skin.
My spiral into full blown hyperventilating is interrupted by a sudden scrape. Then a flick?—
Light flares to life. Not overhead. Not a bulb. A blaze of a long-stick match casting flickering shadows along the walls as he moves it to the center of a stack of wood.
The fireplace blooms to life, spilling golden hues across the vast space of a room.
A rug too plush, too decadent for bare feet spills across dark wood floors.
It’s stunning. Lavish. Decidedly regal.
And it has every hallmark of a gilded cage.
Kidnap victims, welcome.
Once the fireplace roars to life, the Russian vanishes without a backward glance, deliberately shielding his face, leaving only thick silence and shadows behind.
The water turns on.
No doubt rinsing two men’s blood from his hands.
Maybe more beneath those rugged nails—leftovers from whatever came before he rescued me.
Rescued…
Right.
I can almost hear Kennedy whispering in my ear.
This isn’t a fairytale, Riley.
No.
This is the remix. Where the prince lights the fire, walks away, and leaves the girl to take in the body count.
I move. Fast.
Fingers scrambling along the edge of the vault-like door, searching for a handle— anything .
There’s nothing.
Just smooth, cold metal and the slow, sinking realization that this isn’t a room.
It’s a cell.
A cell with throw pillows that probably cost more than my rent.
Fuck.
I spin to the window and wrestle with lavish, brocade curtains.
I have no luck prying open the windows behind them because there are no windows . Just drapes and illusions.
My breath heaves in my throat, panic surging hot. And then, I feel it.
Him.
Behind me.
In a slow, regretful turn, I face him.
He stands in the center of the room now. In the firelight.
And for the first time, I see more than just his silhouette.
Dark waves. Black scruff. A crisp white shirt that means he changed his clothes.
And a black mask.
A masquerade designed to form to his face, hiding everything but the line of his mouth and the flicker of darkness in his eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks, using a damp cloth to wipe the blood from my wrists.
Genuine curiosity threads through that otherwise intimidating tone—like this moment matters to him.
Like he’s tucking it away to chew on later, deciding whether a straight blade or a hacksaw fits the mood.
I swallow the tremble before it hits my voice.
Do not show fear.
I blink once. “Zorro?”
A pause.
Then, he chuckles.
A low, rough sound that catches me off guard. Too normal. Too human.
And for whatever reason, that’s somehow worse .
His mouth tips into a smirk, and a dimple flashes.
Of course he has a goddamn dimple.
Because why wouldn’t the brooding beast have something beautiful to ruin me with?
“Zver,” he says, voice like gravel. Two strong syllables. Za . Vare .
His gaze drops, trailing down my body. Not hungry. Not crude. But like he’s taking a break to notice a work of art.
Like something precious carved in marble, and he’s admiring every curve, every flaw…his gaze is a tangible feeling against my skin. I lean into it.
“Zver?” I repeat, tasting the unfamiliar word.
A slow nod.
“It’s what you can call me,” he murmurs, voice thick and unhurried. “Feel free to use it when you curse…” Dark eyes find mine again. “Or scream.”
Heat prickles across my skin, and not just from those two, devastating words. I nibble my lip, suddenly unsure.
Is he expecting a name in return?
Because I’m not giving it to him. Nope.
Mostly because, with the heat of him pouring off in waves and my nipples tight against the flimsiest bra I own…
Right now? I genuinely don’t remember my name.
Without a word, he assesses me.
Not fast. Not threatening.
Just… breathing me in.
My heart slams once, hard, like it’s trying to escape through my ribs.
He’s everything I’m not. Dangerous. Quiet. Controlled . While I’m trapped like a mouse with nowhere to go but through the cat.
I force myself to stay still, even as every nerve screams to run. Because what would be the point? There’s nowhere to go. And pissing off a psycho feels like the wrong kind of brave.
He’d catch me.
He already has.
And if he kills the fire…
Turns the room pitch black…
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Goosebumps scatter as two strong fingers slide beneath my chin, tilting my face to one side, then the other.
Like he’s inspecting damage on a vintage Aston Martin he’s already decided to kill for.
His thumb hovers near the bruise. He doesn’t touch it. But I flinch. I always flinch.
A hand too close. A shadow in my periphery. That’s all it takes.
I hate that I can’t control it. That split-second reaction that gives me away.
Like a well-trained circus horse, too used to performing through the sting of the whip to remember how not to react.
But what I hate most is the pity I know I’ll see in his eyes?—
My kidnapper.
A murderer.
A monster in a mask I shouldn’t give two shits about. But the thought of his pity grates against me.
But the only thing that comes his words, low, almost idle. “The man who touched you paid for this.”
Paid…with his life . The words hang unspoken, but I feel the weight of them in a way that trembles every bone in my body.
When a strong finger feathers beneath my chin, I let it. Let him.
Not just because I’m frozen with fear.
It’s the way he looks at me—like a fallen god admiring the fresh, trembling virgin sacrifice laid out at his feet.
And because I’m obviously down a few brain cells, the fear I’ve carried like a shadow my whole life just… disappears. Evaporates like smoke.
Click . The tie around my wrists releases—cut clean through. “Better?” the Russian asks softly.
A few dozen podcasts about trauma bonding to avoid Stockholm syndrome scream through my brain.
“Yes. Thank you,” I whisper, eyes locked on the shape of his shadow. “Where are we?”
The question sounds too small. Too soft for the room.
The shadow shifts. A ripple in the air. The weight of him moving.
“Where you’ll be staying for the night,” he says. “Somewhere safe.”
“Safe?”
I don’t mean to echo it. It just slips out. Bitter. Disbelieving.
He shrugs. “Safe is… suggestive. Let’s go with safe enough .”
I bet it is.
“Like the bottom of a pit where if I don’t put lotion on my skin, I get the hose?”
A beat of silence.
“No hose,” he says eventually. “Though I’m sure I can scrounge up some lotion for your delicate skin.”
Shit.
Did I say that out loud?
He licks his full lips, then speaks. “It’ll take a few days for the bruising to heal.”
Bruising? On instinct, I press a hand to my cheek. The flash of pain answers. Sharp. Immediate. I suck in a breath through my teeth, irritated. “Are you keeping me here for a few days? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Is that what you want?” he asks. His measured tone testing me.
Or himself.
“If I say no?” I shoot back, but my voice is thinner now.
His hands slide into his pockets, holstering his weapons of choice. “No?” he asks. “You can’t say no when you owe me something.”
I do owe him. “A kiss,” I whisper.
Funny how one word can taste like a spark. A promise. Like delirious delight teetering on the edge of a dangerous cliff.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. His smile barely forms—just the ghost of it.
But his eyes?
Already unwrapping me. One breath at a time.
“Yes,” he murmurs, voice soft as sin and twice as intoxicating.
I swallow hard and don’t think.
Don’t overanalyze.
Just move.
Because maybe it’s my zero-control-over-anything night, but something snaps .
I lunge forward. He bends. We crash.
Lips.
Scruff.
Heat.
Enough heat to power twelve fucking suns.
An awkward, hungry frenzy of too much, too fast. My fingers tangle viciously in his curls, nails scoring deep into the hard muscles of his neck.
And when he groans—it fires me up, full throttle.
Static under my skin.
Fire in my blood.
Like I was made for this.
For him .
When I finally break away—gasping, heart pounding, every nerve screaming—it’s over.
The heat fizzles.
Like the last sparkler on the Fourth of July. Still warm, but gone.
He licks his lips. “That was…nice.”
“Nice?”
So a psycho killer called my kiss nice in that dismissive it’s not you, it’s me way. Why do I care?
Still, the word lands heavy in my gut. A ball of lead, soaked in straight gasoline.
Humiliation ignites into fury, flames licking through every thread of my Scottish DNA.
I stare him down.
That sharp jaw. That wall of a militant stance. A body carved by the Gods and kissed by Satan.
To him, I’m nothing more than a flavor. As meaningful as a stick of gum he’s tired of chewing and ready to spit out.
All I manage to squeak out is, “Can I go now?”
Pathetic, Riley.
Which is not exactly my fault. The man’s presence alone steals oxygen and makes the space feel smaller.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me. Like I’m a puzzle so close to being solved.
And I hate it.
Hate the silence.
Hate the heat coiling low in my chest, the way my body betrays the roaring bonfire up my neck and cheeks.
But more than that, I hate that some sick, twisted part of me wants to be tarnished by him.
Wants to be touched and torn apart, shattered and understood, in all the ways I could never figure out.
His to solve.
And for that,
I hate?—
me.
He tilts his head and speaks.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just brutish, direct, and unmistakably Russian.“No deal,” he says simply. “You’ll stay.”
I blink. “What? How long?”
God. Great. Now I’m negotiating my captivity like it’s a lease renewal.
He doesn’t even blink. “Until your bruises heal. Or until I decide you can go.”
The words slither around my ribs, squeezing tight. “You can’t just kidnap me,” I say, voice cracking under the pressure.
He’s already halfway to the door when he tosses a look over his shoulder.
“Kidnap,” he echoes with a dark chuckle, “is such a barbaric term.” His hand finds the doorknob and turns it. “Call it a recovery.”
“But we had a deal. And I—I kissed you.”
“I won’t take that addictive little snarl of disgust in your voice personally,” he murmurs. “But the fact is you … kissed…me ,” he repeats slower. “And yes, it was very, very nice. But that wasn’t the deal.”
I flail my arms. “We agreed to a kiss.”
“No, Zapretnaya ,” he corrects, soft and sharp like he’s scolding a pet. “We agreed that I get a kiss…”
His eyes drop.
First to my mouth.
Down my neck.
Lower.
Lower.
Lingering.
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
“ Where and when I want.”
Butterflies kick up in my gut, flutter around my chest. Not from fear.
But from that slow, cruel realization that some broken, depraved part of me wants to see how far he’ll push me.
How far I’ll let him.
Heat blasts against my ear as he leans in, his breath licking down the side of my neck. “So unless you’re ready to lie back down…and spread those tantalizing thighs for me?—”
Before I can react—before I can object or curse his brute of a name—he’s already pulling back.
“I suggest you settle in. Because you’re staying.”
A pause.
One heartbeat.
Two.
The air rips from my lungs like the room’s been vacuum-sealed. No windows. No light.
I can’t stay here.
Across from me, the Russian shifts another curtain aside, exposing a second door. He’s already halfway through, stepping into a pitch black hallway, though it’s not dark enough to hide the gleam of a shiny padlock hanging from the latch.
My life flashes before my eyes.
The next headline waiting to happen.
True crime’s newest darling.
“Wait!”