Chapter 13
JENNA
The hunger gnaws at my stomach like a living thing. I’ve been without food for—what? Twenty-four hours? Maybe more. Time blurs in this concrete box, but my body keeps its own clock through hunger.
I drift in and out of consciousness on the narrow cot. Every time I shift, I feel the dried evidence of his release between my thighs, a reminder of how he marked me without even being inside me.
The lock mechanism clicks.
I force my eyes open, expecting the usual—Nikolai with a tray, that bone-white mask hiding everything but those beautiful eyes.
The door swings open, and my breath catches.
He fills the doorway like a nightmare made flesh.
Blood covers his tactical gear in arterial sprays and splatter patterns, the wet shine of it catching the industrial lighting.
His gloved hands are stained red, too. The bone mask gives him a horror-esque appearance, sending goosebumps rising over every inch of my skin.
He’s been hunting. Killing.
My body’s reaction is immediate and wrong. My thighs clench together, and heat pools low despite the terror crawling up my spine. The wetness between my legs returns instantly, responding to the predator standing in my doorway, covered in someone else’s blood.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I should be screaming. Pressing myself against the farthest wall and begging him not to hurt me. Instead, my nipples tighten against the cool air, and my breath comes shorter for all the wrong reasons.
“Follow me.”
His voice comes out rough, gravelly beneath the mask.
I don’t argue. What’s the point? I push myself up from the cot, my heart racing from adrenaline and desire, but I force myself to stay steady. I’m naked—he’s used to me this way now. No point in false modesty when he’s already had his hands on me.
His eyes roam over my body like a physical touch, lingering on my breasts, the curve of my hips, the place between my thighs that still aches for him despite everything.
I walk toward him on unsteady feet. He turns abruptly, and I follow.
But we don’t go toward the showers as I expected.
Instead, he leads me down the concrete corridor to something new—an elevator.
My bare feet slap against the cold floor as I struggle to keep up with his longer stride.
The blood on his gear leaves a metallic scent in the air that makes my stomach turn and clench simultaneously.
The elevator rises. One floor. Two. Then opens into a bedroom.
It’s sparse but comfortable—a large bed with dark sheets, minimal furniture, everything functional. This is where he lives. Where he sleeps when he’s not watching me on those cameras.
He guides me through to an en-suite bathroom, one hand on my lower back. The touch burns through my skin, leaving invisible marks. Inside, a massive tub built for two people sits already filled with steaming water.
“Get in.”
I hesitate at the edge while he starts stripping off his blood-soaked tactical gear. The vest hits the floor with a wet thud. His shirt follows, revealing a sculpted tattooed chest I’ve never glimpsed before. More blood streaks his skin—someone else’s blood painting those tribal patterns darker.
My legs tremble as I step into the hot water. It stings against my cold skin, but I sink down anyway, watching him peel off the rest of his clothes. The mask stays on, as always.
The water ripples as he steps in, and I can’t stop staring.
His cock stands thick and hard against his abdomen, that Prince Albert piercing catching the bathroom light like some obscene jewel. The titanium barbell gleams wet from pre-cum already beading at the tip, and my treacherous body clenches at the memory of how it felt grinding against me.
God, he’s built like a weapon. Every muscle defined, every line of his body speaking to years of training. The tattoos across his chest move with each breath, abstract patterns that draw my eyes down, down to where his cock juts out like it owns the space between us.
I want to climb onto his lap and sink down on him until that piercing hits places inside me I didn’t know existed. I want to ride him until the only thing I can remember is his name. Want to—
Stop it.
I dig my nails into my palms beneath the water, horrified at myself.
What kind of person gets wet for their captor?
What kind of fucked-up trauma response is this?
He kidnapped me. Keeps me in a cell. Feeds me when he feels like it, which apparently isn’t often, given the gnawing hunger in my belly.
And here I am, practically drooling over his cock like some desperate slut who can’t control herself.
You’re better than this, Jenna. Smarter than this.
But my body doesn’t care about smart. It only knows that he’s naked and hard and close enough to touch. That the water between us does nothing to hide how my nipples have tightened into peaks or how my thighs keep pressing together seeking friction that won’t come.
He settles into the water across from me, his pale gaze never leaving my face, even as blood rinses off his skin in pink swirls. The mask remains, bone-white and predatory, a barrier between us that I’m starting to hate as much as I fear it.
“Spread your legs.”
The command cuts through my self-recrimination. I push my thighs together instead of obeying. The water sloshes between us as I lean forward slightly, studying him through the steam rising from the tub.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask.
The words come out smaller than I intend, caught somewhere between challenge and genuine fear. Because this feels different. The blood on his skin, the way he brought me to his private space instead of keeping me in that cell—the ground has shifted, and I don’t know what it means.
His eyes flash, his gaze turning predatory in a way that makes my heart climb into my throat.
“Everything I should have done since the moment you got on your knees and sucked my cock.”
The promise in his voice makes me shiver despite the hot water. My body responds instantly—nipples tightening, core clenching, that shameful wetness gathering between my legs even as my mind screams warnings.
Excited. Scared. Both at once.
I don’t know which feeling is winning. The fear tells me to run, to fight, to do something other than sit here naked while he looks at me like he wants to devour me whole. But excitement coils through me—dark and wrong and impossible to ignore.
“Nikolai—”
His name on my lips makes his hands clench beneath the water. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his cock twitches at the sound. He likes when I say it.
But what does everything mean? My mind races through possibilities, each more terrifying and arousing than the last. He’s held back so far—touched me, yes. Made me come, yes. But always with restraint, always pulling away before…
Before what? Before fucking me properly? Before claiming me the way his body clearly wants to? The way mine shamefully craves him despite every logical thought telling me this is insane?
I press my palms against my thighs beneath the water, trying to ground myself. The hunger in my belly is at war with the heat between my legs, physical needs tangling with psychological damage until I can’t separate what I want from what my trauma has conditioned me to accept.
“I don’t understand.”
It’s the truth. I don’t understand him, don’t understand myself, don’t understand why I want him every time he enters that cell.
“Come here,” he demands.
My body moves before my mind can catch up. Water sloshes as I push forward through the tub, drawn by a pull stronger than logic or self-preservation.
His hands find my hips beneath the water, guiding me onto his lap with a grip that leaves no room for hesitation. The moment I settle over him, his cock presses hard against my core, separated by nothing but water.
My hands land on his shoulders for balance, fingernails digging into inked skin as he shifts beneath me. That piercing drags against my clit through the water, and I bite back a whimper that would only feed his desire.
“Do you still want to kiss me?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. He remembers—of course he remembers. Every taunt I’ve thrown at him about hiding behind that mask, every time I’ve asked what he’s so afraid of showing me.
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he feels it. “Yes.”
The word comes out breathless, barely a whisper, but his whole body tenses. He nods once—just once—a sharp movement that sends ripples through the water.
Permission. He’s giving me permission.
My hands shake as they leave his shoulders, moving up to frame his mask. The material feels strange beneath my fingers, warmer than expected from his body heat. I search for the clasps, finding them behind his ears where they’re hidden beneath his dark hair.
The first one releases with a soft click. Then the second.
I pull the mask away slowly, like unveiling something sacred. Or terrible, unsure which I’ll find beneath.
Fuck.
The thought hits me before I can stop it. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. Strong jaw that could cut glass, high cheekbones that belong on magazine covers, dark stubble neatly trimmed like even his facial hair follows orders. His mouth is full, sensual in a way the mask never hinted at.
“Gorgeous.”
The word slips out without permission, hanging between us in the steamy air.
His mouth curves into a smirk—the first expression I’ve ever seen on his face, and it transforms him from dangerous to devastating.
“Is that right, beautiful?”
The endearment rolls off his tongue like he’s been waiting to say it. Without the mask muffling his voice, it sounds richer, deeper. More dangerous somehow.
“Kiss me,” he demands.
My hands shake as I lean forward, closing the distance between us.
I’ve imagined this—God help me, I’ve imagined kissing him in that concrete cell, wondered what his mouth would taste like, what his lips would feel like against mine. Now, faced with the reality, I’m suddenly terrified.