CHAPTER 3
THE MONSTER IN THE BEDROOM
POV: IVY
The dream is always the same.
I’m running through a forest of black trees, their branches skeletal and sharp, clawing at my clothes like desperate fingers. The ground is mud—thick, sucking mud that smells like copper and rot. I can’t breathe. My lungs burn with the effort, screaming for oxygen that isn’t there.
I don’t know what I’m running from, but I can hear it. A low, rhythmic thudding behind me. Heavy footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried.
I trip. The mud swallows my hands, cold and slimy. I scramble to get up, but a shadow falls over me, blotting out the pale, sickly moon.
I wake up with a gasp, my body jerking upright in bed.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, bruised rhythm that echoes the terror of the nightmare. I press a hand to my chest, trying to force air into my lungs. My skin is damp with cold sweat, my t-shirt clinging uncomfortably to my back.
It was just a dream.
I squeeze my eyes shut, counting backward from ten. A coping mechanism my therapist suggested years ago, back when my mother died and the anxiety attacks started. Ten. Nine. Eight.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of my apartment. Vanilla. Old paper.
And... something else.
My eyes snap open.
The air has shifted again. It’s heavier, charged with static electricity, like the atmosphere right before a lightning strike. The silence in the room isn’t empty; it’s expectant.
I reach up to my throat. The cold metal of the birdcage necklace is still there. I fell asleep with it on. I couldn't bring myself to take it off. It felt wrong to remove it, like taking off a wedding ring I hadn’t agreed to wear but couldn't refuse.
I slowly turn my head toward the window.
The blinds are drawn, just as I left them. The new industrial lock is engaged. The room is bathed in the weak, orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the slats, creating stripes of shadow across the floorboards.
Everything looks normal.
But my skin is crawling. The fine hairs on my arms are standing up, prickling with an instinctive warning that predates language.
Run.
I throw the duvet off my legs. I need a weapon. I don’t have a gun—this is New York City, and I’m a broke student—but I have my art supplies.
I slide out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cold wood. My eyes dart to the desk across the room. My X-Acto knife is there, sitting on top of my sketchbook. It’s small, but the blade is fresh. It can cut through canvas and cardstock like butter. It can cut skin, too.
I take a step toward the desk.
Click.
The sound is soft, mechanical, and comes from the front door.
I freeze. My blood turns to ice water in my veins.
It wasn't a knock. It was the sound of the deadbolt sliding back.
I watch, paralyzed, as the doorknob turns. Slowly. Deliberately. It’s not the jiggling, frantic motion of a junkie trying to break in. It’s the smooth, confident turn of someone who has a key.
But no one has a key. Not the super. Not my father. Just me.
The door swings open.
A shadow fills the frame.
He is massive. That’s my first coherent thought. He takes up the entire doorway, his shoulders nearly brushing the sides. He’s backlit by the flickering halogen light of the hallway, rendering him a silhouette of pure, imposing darkness.
He steps inside.
He closes the door behind him and locks it. Click. The sound is final. Like the lid of a coffin snapping shut.
"Who are you?" My voice is a pathetic croak, barely a whisper.
He doesn't answer immediately. He stands there, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. He’s dressed impeccably—a black three-piece suit that looks like it costs more than this entire building.
A long charcoal overcoat hangs from his shoulders.
He looks like a king who took a wrong turn into the slums.
Then he steps into the slice of light from the window, and I see his face.
I stop breathing.
He is beautiful. Terrifyingly, painfully beautiful. High, sharp cheekbones that look like they were carved from marble. A jawline so strong it looks aggressive. His hair is dark, styled back with severe precision, but a single strand has fallen loose onto his forehead.
But it’s his eyes that pin me to the spot. They are dark, endless voids, burning with a cold, blue fire that seems to strip me naked right here in the middle of my bedroom.
And there’s a scar. A thin, jagged white line cutting through his left eyebrow, marring the perfection just enough to make him dangerous.
"Hello, Ivy," he says.
His voice is deep, a baritone rumble that I feel in my stomach. It vibrates through the floorboards, through the soles of my feet, and settles between my thighs.
He knows my name.
"Get out," I say, trying to inject force into my voice, but I’m backing away, moving toward my desk. "I’ll scream. I swear to God, I’ll scream."
He tilts his head, watching me move with the predatory focus of a wolf watching a rabbit. He doesn't look concerned. He looks... amused.
"You can scream," he says calmly, taking a step forward. His movements are fluid, predatory. "But no one is coming. The building is empty, Ivy. I bought it an hour ago."
My back hits the edge of the desk. My hand scrambles behind me, fingers closing around the cold metal handle of the X-Acto knife.
"You... you bought the building?" The absurdity of it makes me dizzy.
"I like privacy," he says simply. "And I don't like sharing my things."
My things.
He’s talking about me.
"I’m not a thing," I snap, the adrenaline finally overriding the shock. "And I’m not yours."
I whip the knife out from behind my back, holding it out in front of me with a shaking hand. The blade catches the light, a tiny, silver threat against a giant.
He stops. He looks at the knife, then up at my eyes. A slow, dark smile spreads across his lips. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the smile of the devil realizing you want to play a game.
"Careful, little bird," he purrs. "You might cut yourself."
"Stay back!" I shout. "I mean it! I’ll kill you!"
"I doubt that."
He moves.
He closes the distance between us in a blur of motion that defies his size. One second he’s five feet away, the next he’s right in front of me.
I slash the knife through the air, aiming for his face, his chest, anything.
He catches my wrist mid-swing.
His grip is like iron. Unyielding. Painful. He stops my arm with zero effort, twisting my wrist just enough to force my fingers open. The knife clatters to the floor, useless.
He doesn't let go. He pins my wrist against the wall above my head, his body slamming into mine, trapping me between the desk and his hard, unyielding frame.
I gasp, the air knocked out of me. The contact is electric. I can feel the heat of him through his clothes, the solid wall of muscle beneath the expensive wool of his coat. He smells of winter air, expensive tobacco, sandalwood... and something metallic. Something sharp.
Blood.
I look down and see a small, dark splatter on the white cuff of his shirt.
"You... you’re bleeding," I whisper, my eyes wide.
"Not my blood," he murmurs, leaning down. His face is inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek, hot and minty.
"Who are you?" I ask again, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "What do you want?"
He releases my wrist but keeps his hand planted on the wall beside my head, caging me in. He reaches out with his other hand—a large, leather-gloved hand—and traces the line of my jaw. The leather is cool and smooth against my skin.
He drops his hand lower, his thumb brushing over the pulse point at my throat, resting on the diamonds of the choker.
"It suits you," he says softly, ignoring my question. "I knew it would. You have the neck for it. Long. Elegant. Vulnerable."
I shudder, a mix of revulsion and a dark, twisting heat coiling in my belly. "Take it back. Take it and leave."
"I don't give gifts to take them back, Ivy."
He leans closer, his nose brushing against my hair. He inhales deeply, as if he’s trying to memorize my scent. "Vanilla and fear. My favorite combination."
"Please," I whimper. "Just tell me what you want. Money? I don't have any. My dad—"
"Your dad," he interrupts, his voice hardening. The temperature in the room seems to drop. "Your father is the reason I’m here."
My stomach lurches. "Did he... did he borrow money from you?"
"Something like that." Silas—I don't know his name, but my mind screams Predator—pulls back slightly so he can look me in the eye. "He owed a debt. A very large debt to very bad men. Russians."
"I... I can’t pay you," I stammer. "I have nothing."
"He didn't have the money either," he says. "So he offered a trade."
He pauses, letting the silence stretch, letting the horror sink in before he’s even said the words.
"What trade?" I whisper, though I think I already know. I think I’ve always known my father would sell me if the price was right.
"You," he says. The word is a hammer blow. "He sold you, Ivy. To the Russians. To work off his debt on your back."
The room spins. Black spots dance in my vision. "No. No, he wouldn't. He loves me. He’s sick, but he loves me."
"He loves himself," the stranger corrects me, his voice devoid of pity. "He loves the bottle and the cards more than he ever loved you. He was going to let them take you to Dubai. To turn you into a whore."
A sob rips itself from my throat. My legs give out, but his body holds me up, pressing me against the wall.
"But don't worry," he continues, his thumb stroking my cheek, wiping away a tear. "I didn't let them have you."
"You... you saved me?" I look up at him, searching for a glimmer of kindness in those cold, blue eyes.
"Saved?" He chuckles darkly. "No. I outbid them."
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. "I bought the debt, Ivy. I bought you."
I shove at his chest, panic exploding in my chest like a grenade. "No! You can't buy a person! This isn't—this is insane! I’m calling the police!"
I try to duck under his arm, but he catches me easily. He spins me around, pressing my back against his chest, crossing his arms over mine, effectively turning into a human straightjacket.
"The police work for me," he whispers into my hair. "Everyone works for me. There is no one coming to help you, Ivy. Your father is gone. Your lease is terminated. Your life, as you know it, ended the moment I walked through that door."
"Let me go!" I scream, thrashing against him. I kick back, my heel connecting with his shin.
He doesn't even flinch. He just tightens his grip, squeezing the air out of me until I’m gasping.
"Fight me," he growls, and I hear the arousal in his voice. "God, I love it when you fight. It makes the breaking so much sweeter."
He lifts me off the ground effortlessly. My feet dangle uselessly in the air.
"Where are you taking me?" I cry, hysteria clawing at my throat.
"Home," he says.
He walks toward the door, carrying me like I weigh nothing.
"My things!" I protest weakly, looking back at my tiny, pathetic apartment. My sketchbook. My mother’s photo on the nightstand. "I need my things!"
"You need nothing," he says, stepping into the hallway. "I will give you everything you need."
He kicks the door shut behind us.
The hallway is empty. Down the stairs, I can hear the faint sound of an engine idling.
I stop fighting. Not because I want to, but because the shock is finally overwhelming my system. My body goes limp in his arms. I rest my head against the wool of his coat, listening to the steady, powerful beat of his heart.
It’s a slow rhythm. Calm. Unbothered by the fact that he’s kidnapping a woman in the middle of the night.
He smells like blood and safety. The contradiction makes me want to vomit. It makes me want to burrow closer.
We reach the bottom of the stairs. The cold night air hits my face as he pushes open the front door.
A massive black car is waiting at the curb. A man in a suit is holding the back door open. He doesn't look surprised to see his boss carrying a girl in pajamas. He just nods.
"Welcome home, Miss Ross," the driver says.
Silas deposits me into the backseat. The leather is soft, heated. It smells like him.
He slides in next to me, the door thudding shut, sealing us in. The lock engages.
I shrink against the far door, hugging my knees to my chest. I look at him. He’s adjusting his cufflinks, looking perfectly composed, as if this was just a business meeting.
He turns his head slowly, catching my gaze. The streetlights outside cast shadows across his face, making the scar through his eyebrow look deeper, darker.
"Stop shaking, Ivy," he says softly.
He reaches out and covers my hand with his. His glove is gone now. His skin is warm, rough, calloused. His thumb rubs over my knuckles in a soothing, possessive rhythm.
"You’re safe now," he promises.
"I’m a prisoner," I whisper, my voice trembling.
He smiles. A genuine, terrifying smile that reaches his eyes.
"Same thing, little bird."
The car pulls away from the curb, merging into the darkness of the city, taking me away from everything I’ve ever known, and deeper into the abyss of the man sitting beside me.