Chapter 9
JENNA
Time doesn’t exist in concrete boxes. No windows, no clock, no way to track the sun’s movement across a sky I can’t see.
The lights never change—steady, sterile, bright enough to keep me from real rest and constant enough that I lose track of whether it’s day or night. Could be three days. Could be a week.
The lock mechanism clicks. I don’t move from my position on the cot, but every muscle coils tight.
He enters in black tactical pants, a fitted shirt, that bone mask covering everything below his eyes.
The tray in his hands holds the usual food, protein, vegetables, water.
Balanced nutrition to keep his acquisition healthy.
He sets it on the small table bolted to the wall, already turning to leave. Same routine every time. No words, minimal eye contact, like I’m livestock he’s maintaining.
“The mask stays on even during feeding time?” I ask. “Must get uncomfortable.”
He pauses at the door but doesn’t turn.
“Or maybe you like it.” I swing my legs off the cot, bare feet hitting cold concrete. “The distance it creates. Makes all this easier, doesn’t it? Not having me see you as a person.”
His shoulders tense. Still facing away.
“That’s what the mask is really for, isn’t it?” I stand, taking one step closer. “Not intimidation, but avoidance. Avoiding having to acknowledge what you’re doing.”
“Eat your food.” His voice comes out rougher through the mask’s filter.
“Why?” I take another step. “So I stay pretty for whatever buyer you’ve lined up? Or is there even a buyer?”
He turns then, those ice-blue eyes locked on mine. “There’s always a buyer.”
“But not for me.” I’ve seen how he watches when he thinks I’m sleeping. How his hands clench when he sets down the tray. “You’ve been here what—three times today? Is that normal protocol for your acquisitions?”
“You’re counting?” he asks.
“Not much else to do in here.” Another step. He doesn’t retreat. “Besides watching you pretend you’re not watching me.”
Through the slits in his mask, I notice his jaw tighten. “Careful.”
“Of what? You’ve already taken everything. What’s left to threaten?” I tilt my head. “Unless you’re warning yourself.”
The air between us shifts, charged with an electric current. I’m not good at seduction, or manipulation through sexuality. Never learned those particular skills. But with him, I don’t think I need to. The tension already exists, crackling in the space between our bodies.
“I don’t even know your name,” I murmur.
For a moment, I think he won’t answer, that he’ll maintain this clinical distance between captor and captive.
And then he speaks, “Nikolai.”
The name hits unexpectedly. Russian origin. It fits him somehow—the harsh consonants, the way it demands to be pronounced correctly. I test it, letting it roll off my tongue.
“Nikolai.”
A sound escapes him—low, guttural, barely audible through the mask. His entire body goes rigid, hands forming fists at his sides. The growl sends heat straight through me, and suddenly I understand. He’s imagining me saying his name in a very different context. Imagining how it would sound when he—
My thighs clench at the thought. Just a small movement, but his gaze drops immediately. When they travel back up to my face, his pupils are blown wide.
The concrete room suddenly feels smaller. The air is thinner.
He takes a step back, but it looks like it costs him. “Eat your food.”
“Nikolai.” I say it again, watching him flinch like I’ve struck him.
“Stop.”
“Why? You gave me your name. Don’t you want to hear me use it?” I ask.
His breath shifts, audible through the mask’s filter. His pants do nothing to hide his body’s response to this conversation. To me saying his name like it’s mine now.
“This is not—” He cuts himself off, jaw working beneath the white material.
“Not what?” I press, even though I should probably shut up. Antagonizing the man holding me captive goes against every survival instinct I possess. “Not what you planned? Not how your other acquisitions go?”
He’s at the door now, fingers wrapped around the handle so tight his knuckles strain white.
“Eat,” he grits out. “Or I’ll make you.”
The threat should scare me. Instead, warmth pools low in my belly at the rough quality in his voice.
“I’d like to see you try.”
The words leave my mouth before the part of me that survived my stepfather’s hands can scream the warning.
He’s across the room in two strides. His hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just there, thumb pressing against my pulse point. My back hits the concrete wall, and suddenly he’s everywhere. Six-foot-four of controlled violence pressed against me, the bone mask inches from my face.
He’s breathing hard through the filter, chest heaving like he’s run miles. Those eyes are almost black now, pupils so wide I can barely see the irises.
My body’s response is immediate and wrong. Heat floods through me, nipples tightening against the thin fabric of my shirt. My heartbeat slams against his palm, and I know he feels it. Knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
This shouldn’t be happening. My stepfather used to pin me like this, hand at my throat while he—
Nikolai’s grip is firm but not cruel. He’s holding himself back, trembling with the effort of not tightening his fingers.
“You don’t know what you’re playing with.” His voice comes out barely human through the mask.
My hips shift, seeking pressure, and I hate myself for it. I hate that my body learned these twisted responses so young. That fear and arousal got tangled up in my nervous system before I understood the difference.
His free hand comes up, braces against the wall beside my head, and cages me in. His thumb strokes once along my throat—gentle, almost affectionate—and I make a sound I don’t recognize.
“This is not—” He stops, swallows hard. Through the pants, I can feel how affected he is, his erection pressing against my stomach. “I don’t do this with acquisitions.”
“Then why with me?”
The question hangs between us, eyes searching mine, looking for an answer neither of us has. His thumb traces my collarbone, and I can’t stop the small gasp that escapes my lips.
“Mine.” The word comes out possessive. His hand tightens just slightly around my throat. “You’re mine.”
Mine.
My body responds with a rush of heat so intense it makes me dizzy. What the fuck is wrong with me? This man kidnapped me, locked me in a concrete box, and I’m getting wet from his hand around my throat?
My stepfather broke something in me and rewired my circuits wrong. But knowing that doesn’t stop the ache between my legs, doesn’t stop my hips from pressing forward seeking friction.
Nikolai’s thumb strokes again, and I bite back a whimper.
Maybe this is how I get out. The thought crystallizes through the haze of unwanted desire.
He wants me—that much is obvious from the way his cock strains against his pants.
If I give him what he wants, maybe he gets careless.
Maybe the locks get left open a second too long. Maybe he will start trusting me.
It’s been—Christ, almost two years since I let anyone touch me. Two years of careful distance, of walking away from interested glances, of battery-operated satisfaction when the need got too strong. My body’s starved for contact, even if it comes from someone who sees me as property.
“Say it again.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
His pupils dilate further, if that’s even possible. “Mine.”
My thighs clench, and he notices. Of course he notices. Those winter eyes miss nothing.
“You want this.” Not a question. He sounds wrecked, like the knowledge is destroying him. “You want me.”
I should play the terrified captive, make him work for every inch of trust. But my body’s already given me away—the hard points of my nipples visible through my shirt, and I’m practically riding his thigh where it’s pressed between my legs.
“I want—” My voice cracks. I swallow, try again. “I want to see your face.”
He goes still. Even his breath stops for a moment.
“No.”
“Why not?” I press, even as his hand tightens around my throat in warning. “If I’m yours, don’t I deserve to see who owns me?”
The growl that escapes him vibrates through me where we’re pressed together.
His grip on my throat loosens as I drop to my knees, concrete biting through my thin pants. My hands find his belt, fingers working at the buckle with more confidence than I feel.
His hand shoots down, iron grip circling my wrist. “What are you doing?”
The rumble in his voice sends another pulse of heat through me. I look up at him through my lashes, letting my free hand rest against his thigh. The muscle tenses under my touch.
“I’m bored.” The words come out steadier than expected. “And from what I can feel, you’ve got something rather substantial I can service.”
His whole body goes rigid. The hand around my wrist tightens enough to hurt, but he doesn’t pull me away. Nikolai simply stares down at me with such intense desire.
“You don’t—” His voice catches. “This isn’t how this works.”
“How does it work then?” I shift closer on my knees, letting my breath ghost over the obvious bulge in his pants. “You keep me locked up, bring me food, watch me sleep? That’s the whole plan?”
His cock twitches visibly through the fabric.
“Or maybe this is exactly how it works.” I turn my trapped wrist, testing his grip. Not trying to escape, just feeling the strength there. “Maybe you’ve been wanting this since you first saw me. Maybe that’s why I’m here instead of wherever you usually keep your acquisitions.”
“Stop talking.”
But he still hasn’t moved. Hasn’t pulled me away or stepped back. Just stands there trembling with restraint while I kneel at his feet.
I lean forward, press my mouth against the fabric covering his erection. Just the barest pressure, but his whole body jerks as if I’ve electrocuted him. The sound that tears from him is barely human—desperate and furious and hungry all at once.
“Jenna,” he growls.