Chapter 6 Vivika
VIVIKA
Iwake on the third morning of my captivity with a plan already forming in my mind.
The light coming in between the curtains tells me it's early, maybe six or seven, and I lie still for a moment listening to the sounds of the house. I hear the distant clatter of pots and pans and the hum of some music from somewhere, probably Rosa making breakfast for whoever is here.
I slip out of bed and dress quickly, pulling on the jeans and sweater that Rosa brought me yesterday.
The jeans are designer, fitted perfectly to my hips and thighs, and the sweater is cashmere, so soft it feels like wearing a cloud.
They're just more props like the original pile of clothes Lev dragged in here trying to make me appear more and more like this Ana character.
I'm starting to hate everything about this woman I've never met.
The only shoes I have are the cheap canvas ballet flats I was wearing the day they took me. They're scuffed and stained from the slush on the driveway when one of them fell off. They're out of place next to all this luxury, but they're the last piece of my real life I have left.
I slip them on and walk to the window.
Yesterday, it rained from morning until well past dark in a steady, cold drizzle.
I stood here multiple times staring out at the constant rivulets of water streaming down the windows wishing it were a nice day.
The trellis I spotted on my first day would've been slick and dangerous in the rain, and I'd have fallen and broken something.
But this morning, the conditions are perfect for me to slip out this window and past the dead vines snaking up the weathered wood.
The trellis is right there, maybe three feet to the left of my window, close enough that I can reach it if I lean out far enough.
From there it's a straight shot to the ground, maybe fifteen feet, and then I run, and I disappear into the countryside before anyone knows I'm gone.
I know it's a shit plan. But it's the only plan I have, and I'd rather die trying to escape with a shit plan than sit here waiting to find out what these men have in store for me.
I don't want to pretend to be someone else, not even for a second. I want to go home and I want to tell the police about these psychos so they can’t do this to some other innocent woman.
I unlock the window and push it open and instantly shiver.
I don't have my coat and the cold air slaps me.
My breath fogs as I lean out and gauge the distance to the trellis.
It's farther than it looked from inside.
The gap between the windowsill and the nearest wooden slat is at least four feet, maybe more, and there's nothing but empty air beneath me.
This isn't a shit plan. This is a fucking death trap, and I'm walking right into it willingly.
"I can do this," I encourage myself.
I swing one leg over the sill, my ballet flat dangling in the open air, and grip the window frame with both hands.
My heart is pounding so hard, I feel like it might make me lose my nerve, and my palms are slick with sweat.
I just have to reach out, grab the trellis, and pull myself over.
One smooth motion. Don't think about the drop or what happens if I fall—broken leg, maybe a broken neck.
Shifting my weight, I prepare to lunge, but my shoe slips off my foot.
Time seems to slow as I watch it tumble through the air, end over end, until it hits the gravel below. And since it's early morning with zero traffic or even animal noise outside right now, the dropped shoe sounds like a fucking bomb going off.
I freeze with my leg still hanging out the window and my hands white-knuckled on the frame. And then I hear a voice shout something I can't make out.
Then heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Every alarm system my body has is going off, but I still reach toward that damn trellis for dear life. I'm craned out, spanning the gap between window and wood, when I feel two strong hands wrap around my torso and begin dragging me back through the window and I know my plan has failed.
I turn over my shoulder with fear replacing the adrenaline rush and see Lev's wild, angry eyes glaring at me as he growls, "What the hell are you doing? You're going to kill yourself!"
There's no point in trying to fight him. His arms are like steel bands around my body, his grip so tight I can barely breathe, and I know I'm bested. I let him drag me inside and pin me against his chest possessively, and he holds me there with one arm while he shuts and locks the window.
It's insane how strong he is. My arms wrap around that thick bicep and feel how hard it is.
This guy is seriously a musclehead, and he's not even breaking a sweat doing it.
Strength that powerful is a major turn-on, and my body flails helplessly as he spins me around and pins me against the wall.
It makes my belly flutter when he stares into my eyes angrily, and I swallow around a knot forming in my throat.
What the fuck is he doing to me?
"Are you fucking stupid?" he growls. "Did you think you could just climb out a window and disappear?"
My voice is trapped somewhere in my throat, caught between fear and the flurry of hormones raging through my body now that he's let me go. Fuck, he smells good too.
His expression is thunderous, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with rage. He boxes me in with a hand on either side of my head as I cower.
"We know who you are," he says. "We know everything about you. Where you live. Where you work. Who your clients are. If you ran, we'd find you. And the next time, you wouldn't be treated so gently."
I swallow hard, my throat dry. "I had to try."
"No. You didn't." He steps closer, looming over me, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "All you have to do is play along. Don't you realize that fighting this family will get you killed?"
"I'm sorry," I mutter, though I'm not really sorry.
Something flashes in his eyes as they drop to my lips and then rise slowly back to meet my gaze.
It makes my pulse thunder in my ears, but I'm not the sort of woman who can fight back against men like this.
I don't know what to say or how to behave.
It's not like anything I say is going to change his mind.
"Get dressed," he says. "You're coming downstairs for breakfast." Lev pushes off the wall and starts toward the door while I brush my hair out of my face and try to make the burning in my cheeks stop.
"I am dressed."
He reels around on me and glares at me harder.
"You're dressed like a college student. Ana Veche doesn't wear jeans with sweaters.
" He walks to the wardrobe and pulls out a dress, something silky and dark green that looks too expensive.
"Put this on—and fix your hair. You look like you just rolled out of bed. "
I did just roll out of bed, but I don’t have the guts to say that to him.
I don't want to be smacked or something.
Frustration boils over as I take the dress from him and stare at it.
It's not hideous, but it's not my style at all.
I'd be in a cute cocktail dress with no sleeves, not this.
It looks like something a woman fifteen years older than me would wear.
I'm scowling, walking toward the bed to put the dress down so I can disrobe and change, but Lev doesn't leave. He stands there with his arms crossed over that huge barrel chest that just pinned me to the wall and scowls at every move I make.
"I'm not changing in front of you."
"And I'm not leaving this room again after your little sneaky attempt at escape." His stare doesn't avert even a smidgen as he says, "Change. Now."
Heat floods my cheeks and I clutch the dress against my chest like a shield. "I won't try again. I promise."
"Your promises don't mean shit to me." He leans against the wall, settling in like he's got all the time in the world. "You want to earn trust, you start by following orders. Now take off your clothes and put on the dress."
I stare at him, waiting for him to look away, to give me even the smallest concession of privacy, but he doesn't. His dark eyes stay fixed on my face, and I realize with a sinking feeling that he's not going to budge.
He's going to stand there and watch me strip down to my underwear because I tried to escape, and this is my punishment.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the hem of my sweater and pull it over my head slowly.
My skin prickles with goosebumps that rise on every exposed inch of my body that falls under his gaze.
The air in the room feels thick, charged with chemistry, and I can feel his eyes ogle me even though I'm staring at the floor.
The sweater drops from my fingers and I stand there in my bra, fighting the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
"Keep going," he grumbles, but the desire is thick in his tone. It makes my core pulse and ache for a moment before I remind myself that this man is a kidnapper and probably guilty of other crimes far worse than that.
I unbutton my jeans with fumbling fingers and push them down over my hips, stepping out of them one leg at a time until I'm standing in nothing but my bra and panties.
They're not the kind of lingerie a woman wears when she's expecting someone to see her.
They're practical and plain and they make me feel even more exposed than if I were wearing nothing at all.
It's embarrassing, and I can't even look up at him.
My face burns with humiliation as I stand there half-naked while Lev's eyes drink in the sight of my body.
He's not even pretending to notice how uncomfortable I am, either.
His gaze lingers on my breasts, on the dip of my waist, on the curve of my hips.
I feel like a piece of merchandise being ogled at an auction, and I hate him for not just letting me flee out that window.