Chapter 5 Sage
SAGE
Fog curls low around the lamplight as I twist the key in the café door.
The metallic clink echoes louder than usual, swallowed almost instantly by the dense stillness of Aspen Ridge at night.
Tourists have gone back to their rented cabins, and locals are tucked inside homes with wood stoves burning.
Main Street feels emptied out, too still for comfort, and the hush closes in around me.
I tuck the key into my pocket, hugging my jacket close against the bite in the air. Underneath it lies something colder that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.
Footsteps echo behind me, persistent and close.
My pulse spikes. I quicken my pace, boots scraping on the slick pavement where moisture has begun to settle.
The fog thickens as I move, disguising the edges of the alley beside the bookstore.
I catch movement there, a shifting mass darker than shadow, and my breath hitches in my chest.
“Hello?” My voice cracks. I hate the way fear bleeds through despite my attempt at firmness.
No answer. I clutch my bag tighter against my ribs and keep moving, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
The familiar route to my parked car suddenly feels foreign, stretched out and treacherous.
Then headlights blaze through the mist. White light cuts through the fog like a blade.
A black SUV screeches to a stop so close I feel the rush of displaced air against my face and smell the burn of hot rubber on asphalt.
My heart lurches into my throat. Doors slam. Two. Maybe three.
“Wait—” My protest shatters into the night, but rough hands are already on me before the word fully leaves my lips. Fingers clamp around my arms with bruising force, jerking me backward so hard my feet nearly leave the ground.
I thrash with everything I have, every ounce of strength I possess.
My bag hits the ground with a thud, the contents spilling across the wet pavement.
I shriek, the sound tearing from my throat raw and desperate, kicking out wildly, nails clawing at wrists I can’t see clearly.
My voice ricochets off the brick walls that line Main Street, but no one answers.
A cloth clamps over my mouth, acrid and stinging, the chemical smell so strong it makes my eyes water instantly.
My lungs seize as the tang invades them, burning down my throat.
I wrench my head from side to side, fighting for clean air, but the grip only tightens.
Panic drums wildly in my chest, a frantic rhythm that drowns out rational thought and reduces me to pure animal instinct.
Dark fabric drops over my eyes. A blindfold yanks down roughly, cutting me off from even the dim glow of lamplight filtering through the fog. The world shrinks into sound and touch alone. Rough hands drag me backward. My gasps and screams are muffled against the chemical-soaked cloth.
“No!” The word dies against the cloth pressed hard over my mouth.
I thrash harder, my nails digging deep enough into flesh that I feel skin give way beneath them, but someone wrenches my wrists behind me.
The cloth on my mouth presses harder, forcing my head back at an uncomfortable angle.
Spots dance behind my closed lids, white and red bursts of light that signal my body beginning to surrender despite my mind's screaming resistance.
I’m pulled into the SUV, then something brushes against my thigh, warm, solid, and achingly familiar.
Fur. A wet nose nudging me with unexpected insistence, with what almost feels like concern.
My chest convulses with relief before dread crushes it flat, extinguishing that brief flare of hope.
Vega. And where Vega is, Luka Barinov is, too.
And then I hear him. That voice I have come to recognize over days of him occupying my café like he owns it.
His voice slices through the dark, cool and merciless. “I want the truth.”
I barely process the words. I can’t make sense of what truth he could possibly want from me, before the chemical on the cloth drags me under.
My body surrenders despite every screaming nerve, my eyelids fighting to stay open, maintain consciousness, and hold onto some shred of control. The world drops away, lost to darkness.
When I wake, the world tilts. Everything feels wrong in a way that twists low in my stomach.
Silk slides beneath my palms as I move my hands cautiously.
A soft scent of roses fills the space, but the undercurrent of whiskey cuts through, sharp and unmistakable.
The combination clings to the air like a signature.
I blink slowly, forcing my eyes open, but the dim light only confirms what my hands already know. This isn’t my cottage with its worn quilts and creaking floors. Not the café with coffee stains and chipped mugs. Not anywhere that belongs to me.
Luxury surrounds me in a way that makes my throat tighten with something close to nausea.
Heavy velvet drapes frame tall windows that look built for mountain views but now shut out the night.
A vase of red roses sits on a carved log table polished to a shine.
The bed is massive, easily king sized, dressed in ivory silk that pools around my waist, glinting in the lamplight.
A thick rug muffles every sound. The fireplace across the room is made of stone, its mantle lined with ironwork detail.
At the same time, paintings of alpine landscapes hang between the timber panels.
It’s not comfort. It’s containment. The lock turns from the outside, a single sound that reveals the cage beneath the polish.
My pulse roars in my ears, so loud I wonder if whoever stands on the other side of that door can hear it.
The door opens slowly, and I know before he fully appears who will fill the frame.
Luka Barinov. Six feet and four inches of controlled violence in an immaculate suit that costs more than three months of my café's revenue.
Broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway, his presence somehow taking up more space than his physical form should allow.
His eyes lock on me immediately and the breath catches in my throat.
My hands curl into the silk sheets before I can stop them.
“You—” My voice cracks, but I force the words out anyway. Fury floods in, stronger than fear, and hotter than the panic that wants to consume me. “What the hell is this?”
He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries or pretense. No apology. No explanation. Just a question delivered like an accusation. “What is your connection to Ray Bellamy?”
The name lands in the quiet room like a stone dropped into still water, rippling out into my confusion and creating more questions than answers. I blink at him, genuinely baffled, my mind scrambling through memories and coming up empty. “Who?”
“Ray. Bellamy.” His tone sharpens, each syllable clipped and precise as a scalpel. “Tell me who he is to you.”
My hands clench the silk sheets harder, my knuckles going white with the force of my grip. “I don’t know who that is.” My voice is stronger now. Anger is easier to hold onto than terror. “I don’t even know who you are. Not really.”
I refuse to look away. If he thinks I’ll cower, curl into myself, and break under the pressure of his stare, he doesn’t know me.
He doesn’t know what I’ve survived already.
Losing my father when I was too young to understand death.
Watching my mother work herself into an early grave.
Shouldering Hope's medical bills that pile up like snow in a Colorado winter until you can’t see the ground anymore.
The air stirs, and Vega slips through the door before Luka can close it.
The dog moves straight to me, his massive body crossing the distance between us in seconds, pressing his enormous head into my lap with a sigh that sounds almost human.
As if the chaos of the night never happened, and we’re back in the café with him begging for treats.
Something inside me cracks. My hand finds his fur without conscious thought, my trembling fingers sinking into the warmth of his coat, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The tears that sting my eyes have nothing to do with relief and everything to do with betrayal.
Because his presence here, in this locked room, proves beyond doubt that Luka orchestrated all of this.
The hands that grabbed me in the fog. The chemical that stole my consciousness. This cage disguised as luxury.
“Vega,” I whisper, my lips faltering around the name. My voice breaks on the second syllable. “What are you doing to me?”
I don’t know if I’m asking the dog or his owner, but it hardly matters. Neither one will answer in a way that makes this nightmare make sense.
Luka doesn’t move from his position by the door or soften even fractionally.
He just watches, his eyes fixed on the way my fingers clutch his dog as if Vega is the only solid thing left in a world that’s spun completely off the rails.
Those hazel eyes miss nothing. Not the way my shoulders shake.
Not the tears I am fighting to hold back.
Not the fury and fear warring for dominance in my expression.
I lift my chin, fire scraping up through the fear, burning away some of the vulnerability I can’t afford to show. “You had no right,” I grit out.
My mother taught me to stand tall even when everything in you wants to fold. To meet trouble head-on rather than wait for it to swallow you whole. She never bent, not where anyone could see and I won’t either.
His expression doesn’t change. It remains as unreadable as stone, but his words tear through the air between us. “I have every right. Especially when a name like Bellamy reappears in my world.”