Chapter 15
JENNA
His breathing deepens into the steady rhythm of sleep. One arm drapes heavy across my waist, possessive, even unconscious. I count his breaths—ten, twenty, fifty. Wait until his grip loosens just slightly.
My heart pounds so loud I’m sure it’ll wake him. But he doesn’t stir when I shift incrementally, testing. His arm slides down my hip as I ease away, inch by careful inch.
The bed creaks. I freeze, watching his face in the dim light. His eyes stay closed, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. Without the mask, without the predatory focus, he looks almost… human.
No. I can’t think like that. Can’t let myself forget what he is.
My feet find the floor, cold against bare skin. His clothes lie scattered in the bathroom—tactical pants, black shirt, boots. I grab the shirt first, pulling it over my head. It hangs to mid-thigh, smelling like him.
The pants are too big, but I cinch the belt tight. No underwear—mine are somewhere in that concrete cell. My hands shake as I shove my feet into his boots. They’re huge, but they’ll have to work.
Acquisition.
The word echoes in my skull. He’d called me that. His acquisition. Like I’m property. Like he planned to—
Bile rises in my throat. How many others? How many other women have been locked in cells before me?
I glance back at him sprawled across the bed, one arm stretched toward the empty space where I’d been. Something twists in my chest—not sympathy, never that. But something.
You’re sick. Stockholm syndrome. That’s all this is.
The door handle turns silently under my hand. Thank God it’s not locked from the inside. The hallway stretches dark and empty, industrial lighting casting harsh shadows. I have no idea which way leads out, but I need to try.
The oversized boots scuff against concrete as I move. Every sound seems amplified—my breathing, my heartbeat, the rustle of his clothes against my skin. But I force myself forward, away from the man who took me. Away from whatever twisted operation he’s running.
Away from the small, traitorous part of me that wanted to stay curled against his chest forever.
The hallway branches into a maze of corridors. I choose left on instinct, then right at the next junction. Emergency exit signs glow faintly overhead—following them has to lead somewhere.
My stolen boots echo in the silence. This place is massive, a converted warehouse or industrial complex. Pipes run along the ceiling. Concrete walls stretch endlessly in both directions.
Another turn. Another hallway. My breath quickens as panic creeps in. What if I’m going in circles? What if—
There. An elevator at the end of the corridor, steel doors reflecting the harsh fluorescents. I punch the call button, bouncing on my toes as machinery whirs somewhere above.
The doors slide open. Inside, buttons mark three basement levels. I’m on B3. I jam my thumb against G, holding my breath as the elevator rises. One floor. Two. Three.
Ding.
The doors part, and cool night air hits my face. I step out into an industrial district—warehouses and shipping containers, chain-link fences topped with razor wire. But beyond that… lights. Movement. An underground district carved out between the legitimate businesses.
I know places like this. Spent months in one outside Detroit after running from my stepfather. Cash-only motels, no-questions-asked employment, people who mind their own business because everyone’s running from something.
My legs shake as I walk down the cracked sidewalk.
Neon signs advertise hourly rooms and twenty-four-hour liquor stores.
Music thumps from a bar somewhere. A few people loiter outside a convenience store, but they barely glance at me.
Just another woman in oversized clothes, fleeing something better left unasked.
“Hey,” a voice says behind me.
I spin, fists raised. A woman leans against a doorway, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Mid-forties, maybe, bleached hair showing dark roots. Her eyes scan me.
“You need help?” Her voice carries the rasp of too many cigarettes, but there’s something steady in it.
I hesitate. Trusting no one has kept me alive this long. But I’m in men’s boots, wearing clothes that reek of sex and are splattered in blood, with nowhere to go.
“I could use somewhere to crash.”
She takes a long drag, studying me. “Got a room upstairs. Twenty-five bucks a night, no questions asked.”
“I don’t have—”
“Pay me when you can.” She drops the cigarette, crushing it under her heel. “Come on. You look like you need to get off the street.”
The stairwell reeks of old cigarettes and industrial cleaner. I follow her up two flights, my stolen boots clomping against metal steps. She unlocks a door marked 4A.
Inside, the room is sparse but clean—a single bed with faded floral sheets, a kitchenette along one wall, a bathroom visible through a cracked door. Better than any place I’ve crashed in months.
“Sit.” She gestures to a worn chair by the window. “You look like you haven’t eaten.”
She pulls leftovers from a mini-fridge—Chinese takeout in white containers. The microwave hums as she heats it, not asking questions. I appreciate that.
“Here.” She sets the steaming container in front of me. Lo mein and something that might be chicken. My stomach cramps with hunger.
“Thanks.” I shovel food into my mouth, barely tasting it.
When did I last eat?
She lights another cigarette, watching me from across the small table. “So what’s your deal? You look like hell.”
I pause mid-chew. How much to tell her?
“Just escaped from some psycho.” The words taste bitter. “He was holding me captive in some industrial building. Had me in a concrete cell for…” I try to count. “Two weeks? Maybe more.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? Around here?”
“Yeah. Big complex, multiple basement levels.”
She leans forward, cigarette forgotten. “Was it the Architects?”
The name means nothing to me. “I don’t know. His name was Nikolai.”
“Nikolai?” Her face goes bloodless. “Tall guy? Dark hair? Moves like he’s hunting?”
My throat closes. “You know him?”
“Jesus Christ.” She stands abruptly, pacing. “You need to move on. Tonight. Now, even.”
“What? Why?” I ask.
“That man is—” She shakes her head. “Nikolai Vex doesn’t let things go. Ever. He’s got a reputation for being absolutely ruthless as a collector. If you belonged to him…” She trails off, but her meaning is clear.
My hands shake around the takeout container. “He called me his acquisition.”
“Fuck.” She runs both hands through her bleached hair. “Look, I can help you get out of the city, but we need to move fast. He’s probably already—”
“What’s a collector?” The words stick in my throat.
She lights another cigarette with shaking hands. “You really don’t know?” A bitter laugh escapes her. “Collectors acquire people. Women, mostly. Sometimes men. They take contracts from buyers who want specific types—blonde, brunette, young, old, whatever sick preferences they have.”
My stomach churns. The lo mein threatens to come back up.
“They study their targets first. Learn routines, habits, weaknesses. Then they take them clean—no witnesses, no traces. The targets just… disappear.” She takes a long drag. “Most end up overseas. Sex trafficking, private buyers, whatever brings the highest price.”
“That’s sick.” The word feels inadequate. My hands clench around the takeout container until the plastic cracks. “And there are more collectors around here?”
She nods slowly. “This whole district is their hunting ground. The Architects run the biggest operation—Nikolai is the only collector among them, but there are eight others living there, all with their own fucked up businesses. But there are freelancers too. Smaller crews. Everyone knows to stay out of their way.”
“But none—” She shakes her head, exhaling smoke through her nose. “None of them are as unhinged as Nikolai. Most collectors are gangsters. Cold, efficient, but predictable. They take their targets, make the sale, move on.”
Her eyes narrow, studying me through the cigarette smoke. “People say Nikolai has a superhuman level of tracking—like a fucking animal almost. Once he locks onto a target, they’re done. He can follow someone for weeks without them ever knowing.”
My skin crawls at the memory of being watched. The way he’d known my routines so well and entered my apartment while I slept.
“The Architects usually hold their acquisitions in Wisconsin as far as I’ve heard,” she continues. “Got a huge reserve up there. Isolated. Secure. Multiple buildings for different… purposes.” Her voice drops. “I’m surprised he kept you in their home. That’s not normal.”
Heat creeps up my neck. The way he’d carried me to his quarters. His bed. The first woman he’d ever brought there, he’d said.
“What was he like with you?” She leans forward, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. “Most collectors keep it strictly business.”
I stare at the cracked linoleum, face burning. How do I explain what happened between us? The way he’d trembled when I said his name. His hands on my throat. The desperate hunger in his eyes when he finally—
“He was…” My voice cracks. “Intense.”
“Intense how?”
The words lodge in my throat. I can’t tell her how my body responded to him. Can’t admit that some sick part of me had wanted it.
“And how the fuck did you even escape?” She stamps out her cigarette, immediately lighting another. “That complex has more security than Fort Knox. Cameras everywhere. Multiple checkpoint doors. Nobody gets out without—”
“I noticed he was obsessed with me.” The admission makes shame coil in my gut. “Got hard around me. So I used it to my advantage.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You seduced him?”
“When we slept together in his room, he fell asleep.” I force the words out quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “I just… left. Took his clothes and walked out.”
She stares at me for a long moment, cigarette dangling from her lips. “You’re telling me you fucked Nikolai Vex and then just… walked out while he was sleeping?”
I nod, unable to meet her eyes.
“Jesus Christ.” She lets out a low whistle. “You’ve got bigger balls than most. But sweetheart, when he wakes up and finds you gone…” She shakes her head. “He’s going to tear this city apart looking for you.”