Chapter 7 Sage
SAGE
The fire's warmth has faded from the bedroom, leaving behind a chill that seeps through the walls and settles into my bones.
I pace the length of the room for what feels like the hundredth time, my feet silent against the hardwood floor.
Each step measures the space of my prison, counting out the dimensions of this silken cage Luka Barinov has locked me in.
Twelve steps from the window to the door.
Ten steps from the bed to the wardrobe. Nineteen steps if I follow the perimeter, pacing the edges of my confinement with the same restless energy that’s been gnawing at me for hours.
Or has it only been minutes? Time stretches and contracts in this place, losing meaning when there's nothing to mark its passage except the gradual cooling of embers in the fireplace and the deepening darkness outside the window.
My sister's voice echoes in my head, fragile and worried, asking questions I couldn't answer honestly.
The lies I told her sit like stones in my stomach, sinking deeper with every breath.
Hope deserves better than a sister who vanishes without warning and spins tales about supplier meetings and equipment parts that don't exist.
Denver. I told her I drove to Denver for coffee beans and machinery repairs, as if that made any sense at all.
As if I would make that decision without consulting her first, counting every penny three times, and calculating whether the investment would pay off before tourist season ended and winter's slow months settled over Aspen Ridge.
She didn't believe me. I heard the doubt and the suspicion that something wasn't right, even as she accepted my explanation, because what other choice did she have?
I stop at the window, pressing my palms against the cool glass.
The contact centers me, giving me something solid to focus on when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control.
Outside, darkness blankets the mountain landscape, broken only by scattered stars that pierce through the thin Colorado air with brilliant clarity.
The view should be beautiful and peaceful.
Instead, it mocks me with freedom I can't reach, and distance that stretches between me and everything I've fought to protect.
The café will open tomorrow morning without me.
Jenny will arrive at five-thirty, find the door locked, then fumble with the keys in the pre-dawn darkness, probably still half-asleep from staying up too late studying for her nursing exams. She'll flip on the lights, wondering where I am, and when I don’t answer my phone, she’ll start the opening routine I've drilled into her over months of training.
Grind the beans. Check the milk supply. Fire up the espresso machine and pray it cooperates for once.
She'll handle the early rush alone, taking orders from regulars who know their drinks by heart and tourists who take fifteen minutes to decide between a latte and a cappuccino. She'll stumble through the more complicated requests, the ones that require precise timing and practiced hands, probably apologizing every few minutes for being slower than usual. She’ll call again, certain something’s wrong, but I won’t be there to answer.
And the customers will notice my absence.
They always do. Mrs. Henderson will ask where I am, her weathered face creasing with concern because she's known me since I was a teenager working my first shift at Bean & Bloom under my mother's watchful eye.
The construction crew from the resort expansion will grumble about the wait times, though they'll tip Jenny anyway because they're decent men who understand what it means to work for a living.
The espresso machine will probably malfunction again, spitting steam and grinding to a halt right when the line stretches out the door and into the street.
It's been threatening to die for months, held together with repairs I can barely afford and prayers I'm not sure anyone hears.
Without me there to coax it back to life, to perform the specific sequence of button presses and valve adjustments that convince it to cooperate, Jenny will be forced to close early or turn away customers.
Either option costs me money I don't have.
My reflection stares back at me from the window glass, pale and exhausted, my hair tangled from hours of restless movement.
The face looking back barely resembles the woman who served coffee this morning, who smiled at customers and pretended everything was fine even as anxiety gnawed at her insides.
I look small in this oversized bedroom, dwarfed by expensive furniture and surrounded by opulence I can't begin to fathom.
This isn't my world. These silk sheets and hand-carved wardrobes scream wealth and power that builds empires and crushes obstacles without hesitation or remorse.
And Luka Barinov sits at the center of it all, pulling strings I can't see, and making decisions that reshape my life without asking permission or offering explanations.
He terrifies me. Not just because of the obvious danger and the implicit threat in every carefully chosen word, but because of something deeper. Something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way my pulse kicks up when he enters a room.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge thoughts that have no place in my current situation. Stockholm syndrome, that's what this is. Some psychological defense mechanism where captives start sympathizing with their captors because survival instinct overrides rational thought.
Except it started before the kidnapping.
Before I even knew his name or understood the danger lurking behind those morning visits to my café.
It started the first time Vega knocked into me, when Luka's eyes met mine, and something sparked in the air between us.
I told myself it was nothing more than startled surprise from the collision.
I’ve been lying to myself for days, pretending it didn’t shake me, the way he watched me in the café, his eyes following every move I made.
Pretending my hands didn’t tremble when I set down his Americano and felt his attention drag over me like a touch I wasn’t ready for.
I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than normal caution around a stranger who radiated danger.
But deep down, I knew it was more than that.
Footsteps sound on the stairs below, cutting through my spiraling thoughts and dragging me back to the present moment with a sudden, breath-stealing jolt. My pulse kicks up before I can stop it, hammering against my ribs. He's coming back.
I should retreat to the far corner of the room and put as much distance as possible between myself and the door.
I should prepare myself for another interrogation or worse.
But instead, I find myself frozen near the window, my fingers digging into my palms while heat floods my cheeks at the memory of our last encounter.
His body was so close I could smell cedar and smoke on his skin and feel the leashed violence radiating from him in waves.
His hazel eyes bore into mine, stripping away every defense I tried to construct, leaving me raw and exposed beneath the force of his suspicion.
The footsteps grow closer, reaching the landing outside my door.
They pause for a moment, long enough that I imagine him standing there with his hand on the doorknob, deciding whether to enter or walk away.
Then the door handle turns with a soft click that sounds deafening in the silence.
My breath hitches, trapped somewhere between my lungs and throat, refusing to release as the hinges whisper open.
Luka fills the doorway the way he's filled every doorway I've ever seen him enter.
Tall enough that his dark hair nearly brushes the frame, broad-shouldered and imposing in ways that have nothing to do with physical size and everything to do with presence.
His immaculate suit looks barely rumpled despite hours of wear, the fabric tailored so precisely it moves with him like a second skin, emphasizing the powerful build hidden beneath expensive wool and silk.
But it's his eyes that lock me in place. Those hazel depths that glint between gold and green depending on the light, currently shadowed and stormy with emotions I can't begin to decode. They find me instantly near the window with a focus that makes my stomach flip and my breath stutter.
Vega trots in behind him, the German shepherd's nails clicking against the hardwood before he settles near the cold fireplace with a contented sigh. The dog watches us both with those intelligent dark eyes, his head resting on his paws, looking like he's waiting for a show to begin.
The thought would be funny under different circumstances. Now it just adds to the surreal quality of this entire situation, this impossible nightmare I can't seem to wake from, no matter how hard I try.
Rage barrels through my chest, blistering hotter than the fear that tries to creep up my spine. The anger feels safer than the other emotions swirling through me, and easier to grasp and wield like a weapon when everything else threatens to overwhelm my fragile control.
“You abduct me,” I spit out, each word sharpened by hours of frustration and helplessness, and every indignity I've suffered since he hauled me into that SUV and drove me away from my life.
“You accuse me of things I don't understand.
You keep me from my sister, my café, and everything I've spent years trying to hold together. And you still have yet to apologize for your dog!”