Chapter 4
Izzy
When I woke up—again—I found myself stretched out on a bed that probably cost more than everything I owned combined.
The mattress cradled me instead of sagging beneath my weight.
The sheets were crisp and cool, smooth against my skin in a way that felt almost unreal.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stood framed by luxurious curtains the color of a brewing storm, letting in soft daylight without letting the cold touch me.
There was no peeling paint, and no mould creeping up the corners. I didn’t hear the rattle of pipes threatening to die mid-shower.
Which somehow made it worse. Because rooms like this weren’t meant for people like me.
Nice rooms were for people who had somewhere to go back to. People who belonged to someone—or were owned by something more permanent than bad luck. Places like this were where you kept what you valued.
Still… it was warm.
Warm in a way I hadn’t felt in years. Warmth that came from heating that actually worked, from walls thick enough to keep the cold out instead of pretending to.
I lay there for a moment longer than I meant to, breathing it in, letting my body remember what it felt like not to be braced against the chill.
Whatever waited for me next—interrogation, threats, worse—this was still a hundred times better than waking up shivering in a place with no heat and no hot water, counting coins and hoping the landlord didn’t notice I was late on my rent again.
I pushed myself upright slowly, testing my body.
The restraints were gone.
That realization landed softly but solidly. My wrists were free. My ankles too. No bite of rope or plastic zip ties. Just a dull ache at the base of my skull and the lingering fog of whatever he’d injected me with, dull behind my eyes like sleep hadn’t quite finished with me yet.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The floor was warm beneath my bare feet.
That almost undid me.
I wobbled, catching myself on the edge of the mattress, forcing my legs to remember how to hold me up.
I took a breath. Then another.
For a moment—just one—I let myself pretend this was a fairytale. That I’d woken up in a castle instead of a cage. That princes didn’t always come emerge from the shadows and have blood on their hands.
And then I straightened my spine. Because a girl like me could never attract a Prince Charming.
I tried the door, even though I already knew the outcome.
The handle didn’t budge. It was solid and unyielding. The kind of door built to keep people in—or out—depending on who held the keys. I pressed my forehead briefly against the cool wood, breathing through my nose, then gave the handle one last, pointless jiggle.
“Kidnapping,” I whispered into the room.
“Hospitality,” a voice clarified smoothly behind me.
I spun.
He stood in a doorway I hadn’t noticed—because of course I was too drowsy to notice such an important point—leaning against the frame like he’d always been there.
As though he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere to remind me how vulnerable I was.
Arms crossed. Shoulder braced casually. Dark eyes fixed on me with open interest, not an ounce of apology in them.
His beautiful, sharp features and calm set my nerves buzzing.
He’d showered. His hair was still damp, dark strands curling slightly at the ends, water clinging to him like he hadn’t fully shaken it off yet. He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows, exposing forearms mapped with ink and old scars—layers of story written over damage.
I found myself staring, wondering whether the scars came from a single violent moment or a lifetime of them, whether one night had ruined him or many small wars had slowly claimed his skin.
The flesh there was rougher, tougher, not quite healed so much as resigned—leathered by trauma, reshaped by survival.
The tattoos did their best to hide it. Dark lines and deliberate patterns, carefully placed, as if art could negotiate with damage. In some places, it almost worked. Almost.
But there were tells. Along the inside of his forearms, where the skin looked pulled tight and uneven. At the side of his neck, where ink thinned and the texture changed beneath it. Across his hands, where the scars refused to be disguised at all—scrambled, raw-looking, impossible to soften.
This wasn’t decoration. It was evidence. And yet… I almost stumbled at the sight of him.
Fantastic. Even post-kidnapping, he was unfairly attractive.
“You drugged me,” I reminded him. “Dragged me out of a basement. And locked me in your house.”
“You’re quite observant.”
“That’s kidnapping.”
“I call it self-preservation.”
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it—short, sharp, edged with hysteria. “You have got to be kidding me.”
His mouth curved in a way I wouldn’t exactly call friendly.
“Sit,” he demanded, nodding toward the chair by the window.
I didn’t move.
Something flickered in his expression—not annoyance or anger. Possibly curiosity. His brow lifted just slightly, like I’d surprised him again.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he pointed out. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up.”
“Wow,” I glared. “You should put that on a welcome sign.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “You have a mouth on you.”
“You kidnapped me,” I shot back. “You don’t get polite outta me, buddy.”
He watched me for another long beat, eyes dragging over me the same way mine had over him earlier. Not leering. Assessing. Like he was mapping pressure points instead of curves.
Then he stepped fully into the room.
And closed the door behind him.
The other door.
The click was soft. Final.
It landed uncertainly in my chest, a reminder that I hadn’t been locked away so much as contained. The door I’d been fighting wasn’t an exit at all—it was something else entirely.
He must have seen the confusion flicker across my face, because he lifted a hand and pointed to the doorway behind him, eyes never leaving mine.
“That one leads to the rest of the house.”
Then he lifted his gaze—just slightly—and indicated the door I’d been wrestling with moments earlier.
“And that,” he said, pointed enough to make my stomach drop, “leads to my room. I thought it best to lock it. For my own safety.”
His lip curved into something small and amused, like he enjoyed the irony.
The truth settled in slowly.
It wasn’t just a locked door. It was an interconnecting one. To his room.
The realization locked low and hot in my stomach, fear and awareness tangling together in a way I didn’t like—but couldn’t ignore.
Without him taking a single step closer, the space between us tightened, charged with something sharp and electric. When his gaze locked onto mine again, there was no mistaking it—whatever game he thought we were playing, I’d already stepped onto the board.
“Who do you work for?” he growled.
I blinked. Then I laughed.
I laughed with everything I had—head tipping back, breathless, disbelieving, the sound bouncing off the walls like he’d just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable.
“Oh my God.” I found it hard to breathe. “You’re serious.”
His eyes sharpened instantly, the warmth draining out of them like someone had flipped a switch.
I wiped at my face, still smiling. “That’s… wow. That’s actually funny. Do I look like I work for someone?”
Silence stretched between us. Thickened. Took on weight.
He stepped closer.
I didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Even as my pulse kicked hard, even as every sensible instinct screamed at me to shut up and play nice, I held my ground.
“You think this is amusing.”
“I think you’re paranoid.”
He stopped an arm’s length away.
Close enough that I could smell him again—clean soap and danger stripped down to its essence. It knotted low in my stomach, traitorous and unwanted.
“People don’t wander into places like that abandoned factory by accident.”
“Or,” I replied, forcing my voice to stay light, “people who do usually aren’t chasing their idiot boyfriend through a maze of concrete.”
That did it.
Just a pause. Barely a fraction of a second—but enough. Enough to tell me I’d knocked something loose.
“Your boyfriend,” he repeated.
“Yes. The one I thought was cheating on me. Turns out he’s just very good at hiding things from me.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth and stayed there a beat too long.
“So let me get this straight.” He looked up at the ceiling, as though gathering his thoughts. “You were in that building, in the middle of the night, looking for your boyfriend.”
“I know. It sounds lame. Not exactly my proudest moment.”
A low sound slipped out of him then—not quite a laugh, more like something dragged up from deep in his chest. Rough. Unused. It sent a shiver skidding down my spine before I could stop it.
He straightened, the space between us widening just enough to let me breathe again.
“You’ll stay here,” he informed me.
I frowned. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“You weren’t consulted.”
“There it is. The honesty.”
His smile came back slowly, unapologetic, like he was enjoying the fact that I hadn’t folded.
“I told you. Hospitality. I’m nothing if not a gracious host.”
I crossed my arms, mirroring him without meaning to. “And how long does this… hospitality last?”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Until I’m satisfied.”
Heat crept up my neck, sharp and unwelcome. “With what?”
“Your answers.”
Something in the room changed. The air felt heavier, closer. I held his gaze anyway, even as fear finally settled—tight and real—in my chest. This wasn’t banter anymore. It wasn’t testing the edges. This was a line being drawn, deliberate and unmistakable.
“Well,” I forced a smile that felt thin at the seams, “good luck with that.”
His grin widened, all patience and promise.
“Do I at least get a name?” I pressed. I didn’t drop my arms. Didn’t soften my tone. “What do I call you? My captor? My warden? My Master?”
He snickered, low and brief, like I’d amused him more than I should have.
“You can call me Raze.”
The name settled between us, a truth I had asked for. And in that moment, I knew—with a sudden, terrible clarity—that I hadn’t failed to convince him at all.
I’d done something worse.
I’d made this interesting.