9. Robin
ROBIN
Eight years earlier…
Romania, here I come.
My trip has been mind-blowing so far. I’m on my last train of the summer, and I can feel it in my bones.
London feels like a lifetime ago. Rain on cobblestones, the smell of tea and old books, me pretending I belonged there. Paris was too beautiful, almost. I remember standing on the Pont des Arts at night, telling myself I’d never forget how the city glowed.
Barcelona was hot with beautifully strange architecture, and Venice was unreal. Prague was amazing. Gothic spires and narrow streets that felt like they were watching me back.
I let out a quiet breath and lean back. One last summer before vet school, before my real life begins.
The conductor walks by, muttering something in a language I can’t quite catch, but I give him a polite smile anyway. He nods, moves on.
I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, scrolling through the photos I’ve taken so far. It’s been so exciting, but Romania is going to be different.
I rest my head back and close my eyes for a second. This is the part of the trip that feels like stepping into one of those old films. Everything starts off feeling normal, until—
The train lurches slightly, slowing again.
I open my eyes.
The friends I met and traveled with left me on this last leg. None of them were interested in Romania. Well, screw them.
I get off the train, go to my hotel, and settle in for the night.
Three days later, I’m immersed in the gothic feel of this amazing country.
I stood inside Bran Castle, traced my fingers along cold stone walls, imagining Dracula watching me from the shadows. Next was Sighi?oara Citadel, the birthplace of Vlad the Impaler.
Then Pele? Castle.
That one stunned me.
I grew up wealthy, but a billion-dollar Texas ranch has nothing on this. It was ornate without being gaudy. Elegant without trying too hard. I felt small but in a good way.
The bus tour along the Transf?g?r??an Highway scared the hell out of me with its sharp curves and endless drops. But still I kept my forehead pressed to the window and took it all in.
And the food—
God.
I’ve eaten things I can barely pronounce. Sarmale, cabbage rolls that are warm and rich. Mici are grilled minced meat rolls that are smoky and addictive. M?m?lig? is like polenta and is delicious. And papana?i… Sinful. They’re just fried donuts with sour cream and jam, but oh. My. God.
Finally, in Bucharest, I took belly dancing lessons with a woman named Irina Vasilescu who taught me that the dance is more about feeling your body than about following rules.
It originated as a celebration of childbirth, so she inspired me to let the music move through me instead of trying to master every step.
“You move like you’re thinking too much,” she told me. “Stop trying to control it. Let your body tell you what it wants.”
Easier said than done, but for a minute I felt freer than I ever have.
When I was getting ready to leave, she smiled. “Be sure to go to Umbra Neagra, a bar in Transylvania. Tell them I sent you.”
I promised her I’d check it out.
And now—
I’m standing in front of Umbra Neagra, which means black shadow.
It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Just a dark wooden door tucked between older buildings, but when I push it open—
Wow.
The entire space is lit only by candles flickering softly against deep velvet drapery. The air smells faintly of smoke and something sweeter underneath. Incense, maybe. Or perfume. Low music hums somewhere.
Cushions are everywhere. Rich fabrics, deep reds and blacks. People lounge instead of sit. Many young and beautiful women drape themselves over the cushions, smiling and flirting with the men.
I move toward the bar. The bartender watches me approach, his expression sullen.
“What can I get you?” he asks in English, surprising me.
“My belly dancing instructor in Bucharest told me to come here,” I say.
He lifts his eyebrows.
“Her name is Irina. Irina Vasilescu.”
His expression shifts. No longer sullen. He smiles. “Then you should try our specialty,” he says.
I nod. “What is it?”
“?uicǎ.”
“That’s plum brandy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect,” I say.
He pours it into a small glass that looks strange. Kind of foggy.
Before I can take a sip, I turn quickly toward loud voices. Two men are arguing several feet away. One shoves the other, but after a brief struggle, it’s over.
No one else seems particularly concerned.
I blink and turn back to my drink at the bar.
Present Day
I’m still sitting in this damned cell on this damned cot. My good-looking captor was apparently called away.
How could I have been so cavalier with him?
I need to get a grip. I of all people should know how serious the situation is. This man is my captor, not a freaking guy I met on Hinge.
“Hey,” a voice says.
I look up. It’s a different guy, this one dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt.
“What?” I say abruptly.
“Got your food.” He throws a brown paper bag through the bars. “Go ahead. Eat.”
I gulp. “I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry,” he says. “I have my orders. Now eat.”
I rise and grab the bag off the concrete floor. He tosses a bottle of water through the bars as well. I eye the bucket in the corner of the small cell. Eventually I’ll have to use it, especially if I drink. Which I have to do. I can go several weeks without food. But water? That’s essential.
I pick up the bottle and take it and the bag back to my cot and sit down. I open the bag. Inside is a bruised apple and a piece of stale bread.
“You expect me to eat this?” I ask, scoffing.
He pulls a gun out of the back of his waistband.
I go cold.
“Yeah,” he says. “I expect you to eat it. And if you don’t, I’ll fucking shoot your brains out, bitch.”
Calm down. Get your bearings, Robin.
I inhale. Exhale. Inhale again, trying to regulate my breathing.
I open the bottle of water and take a long sip. It’s not cold, but it’s wet, and damn, it feels good sliding down my aching throat.
I’m about to take another long drink when I realize I’d better eat the bread first. I’ll need the water to be able to swallow it.
I tear off a hunk of the crust and put it in my mouth.
It’s worse than it looks, scraping against the roof of my mouth like sandpaper and breaking into stubborn crumbs that don’t want to go down. I chew anyway, forcing my jaw to keep moving.
I take a small sip of water, just enough to soften what’s left in my mouth. I don’t rush it. I make a point of chewing slowly, as if I have all the time in the world.
Like I’m not sitting in a cell with a man holding a gun on me.
He’s still there. I feel him watching me. Not just making sure I eat, but staring.
Good.
Let him.
I tear off another piece of bread, smaller this time, and pop it into my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Sip.
“You’re enjoying that?” he says.
I glance up at him. “Five-star dining.”
He snorts, shifting his weight. The gun doesn’t move, but his stance loosens a fraction.
I reach for the apple next, turning it in my hand. I press my thumb into the bruise. It’s still edible. I bring it to my mouth and take a bite. It crunches, which surprises me.
I swallow and take another sip of water, careful to ration it. Who knows when I’ll get more?
“How long will I be here?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Finally—
“That’s not up to me.”
“Then who?” I press.
He shrugs. “You’ve already met him.”
My stomach tightens. The extremely good-looking captor. The one I talked to like we were sharing cocktails instead of…whatever the hell it was.
I bite into the apple again, harder this time. “Where is he?” I ask with my mouth full.
“He’s on an errand.”
“For what?”
He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You ask a lot of questions for someone in your position.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’ve always been curious.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “I can see that.”
I finish another piece of bread, forcing it down with a longer sip of water this time. My throat aches from the effort, but I don’t stop.
Eat. Drink. Stay alive.
Think later.
Except I don’t have the luxury of later.
I look around the cell again. No cameras that I can see, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
“Why the gun?” I ask casually. “Do you think I’m going to overpower you with stale bread?”
His lips twitch. “You’d be surprised what people try when they get desperate.”
“Am I desperate?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says.
I look away, taking another bite of the apple to cover the flicker of something that tries to rise in my chest.
Fear.
I clear my throat. “I’m Robin.”
He scowls. “I know who the fuck you are. Eat your food.”
I nod as if he’s being reasonable and take another bite.
He lowers the gun a bit.
Good.
I keep eating. Keep sipping. Keep my breathing steady, even though my pulse is racing, my stomach churning.
I may have been cavalier with the other one, but I’m not stupid. And I’m definitely not helpless.
Not yet.
Until—
The man unlocks my cell. “Inspection time.”
I gulp. “No need. I’ve got nothing in here.”
“I have my orders.”
“Is that your favorite phrase?”
“Shut the fuck up, you cunt.”
That shuts me up, at least for a moment. I hate that word. But I hate this asshole more. And I learned long ago that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Pedro. Pedro Zabala.”
“Nice to meet you,” I lie.
He grunts.
“What’s the other guy’s name?” I ask. “The one who was here before.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he stomps toward me, grabs me, and throws me down on the cot.
“Ouch!” I yell.
“Shut up.” He hovers over me, frisking me. “Got to make sure you’re not armed.”
You’d think they’d have figured that out while I lay unconscious on the flight here, but it’s all too clear in a moment why he’s “checking” me. He spends a lot of time on my breasts, squeezing them and pinching them. Then he slides his hand underneath the waistband of my yoga pants and…
I close my eyes. Breathe. Pretend you’re somewhere else.
Does he really think I’m hiding a weapon in my cooch?
No, this is just a blatant violation.
When it’s over, he leaves without a word.
And I break into tears.