Chapter 1
Zoya
Iblink, the world coming into focus in jagged, painful stabs of light.
I try to move my hand but notice my wrist are tied to an awfully familiar chair.
The ropes around my wrists and ankles bite deeper every time I try to move, and the dull, rhythmic throb in my skull makes the tick of the clock somewhere in the dark sound like bliss.
There’s a metallic tang on my tongue that feels eerily familiar.
And the stagnant heat, makes my shirt stick to my body as sweat soaks the fabric.
Fuck, I realize I’ve been kidnapped. Again.
Since I walked into Pravda a few months ago for an underpaying reporting gig, I’ve been snatched by more gangs than I have fingers.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now – and in a way, I am – but that doesn’t make the taste of cheap chloroform any more pleasant.
The air reeks of burnt oil and petroleum, a thick sludge coats the back of my throat.
Something moves at the corner of the room.
I lean forward, swallowing a groan and feeling a migraine hovering.
Massive, hulking machines loom the walls like prehistoric beasts, surrounded by rusted scaffolding and heavy chains dangling from brown hooks.
It’s an abandoned factory I notice.
The flickering fluorescent lights overhead hum with a sickly glow that only makes my headache worse.
I try to piece the scampering details together.
I was snatched at the hotel. I was crouched near the bushes, triple-checking my camera after snagging shots of the senator and the house representative.
The sun was returning home, its dark orange lining the skies.
But it got much darker and it had nothing to do with the clouds.
I felt it before I saw it. The hand clamping over my mouth before I could even draw breath to scream. The chemical-sweet sting of the rag. The silhouette. And then…nothing.
Shit.
I test the ropes one more time, but they don’t budge.
Heavy footsteps crunch on the grit behind me, and with it comes shallow breaths.
Before I can twist around, a hand fists in my hair sharply, yanking my head back.
My head jerks up towards the ceiling, my scalp screaming desperately.
He comes into my line of vision – weathered, ugly and perfectly positioned to block out the light.
His crooked nose angles along with his head as he stares down at me.
I take in the deep purple bruise blooming across his jaw – the evidence of a man who lives for a fight. A slight smile that looked more like a grimace flickers across his features before he leans away again, his fist still gripping my hair.
“Here, boss,” he grunts. “This is the little rat we caught lurking around the hotel vents.” His voice is exactly like his face – rough and mean.
“Who the hell are you?” The words rip out of me, fueled by pure irritation. It’s not smart, but my head hurts and this asshole is pulling my hair like I ran away with his money. “And what on earth is this?”
His smile – if it can be called that – grows a little more sinister, just as another set of footsteps approaches. I can’t see him yet with the ogre holding me in place. The pain in my scalp rips another muffled groan from me.
“This is illegal!” I growl. “You think I won’t call the cops?”
A low smooth chuckle echoes through the room, sending heat up my cheeks.
A stark contrast to the guy who now feels like his underling.
I crane my neck, desperate to catch sight of him.
As he steps into the light, Mr. purple bruise finally lets go, letting my head drop forward.
I let out a wince, my tongue sticking to my jaw, before I look up, blinking.
Dark hair and warm honey brown eyes and tattoos come into my line of vision.
I follow the dark intricate inked chains that wind up his hands.
A tiny scar is nestled near the corner of his lip, and lashes long enough to make most women jealous frame his eyes.
He wears an expensive tailored suit, the wool settling perfectly on his build.
He doesn’t move close to his underling. Instead, he stands a few feet away, studying me with a piercing look.
Shit. He’s gorgeous.
No.
Focus, Zoya!
I shake my head as if to dispel the thought. “Who…who are you?” My voice quivers. I try to take it back, to try again. But it is too late. I hate myself for it.
“You don’t know who I am,” he started, his voice filling the room. “But your little legs and camera found the way to my establishment. Troubles like this costs me business, Zoya. You realize that, don’t you?”
He knows my name. Of course, he does.
“I …”
“I have a question for you.”
He bends slightly, bringing himself closer to my level. This is when I realize there are others in the room, because one of his men steps forward and hands him something.
I take in a deep breath when I see it – my professional camera. Needing to play this cool, I allow myself huff. “So you found me trying to earn a living. What of it?”
He doesn’t seem to be ruffled, not even one bit, as he scrolls through his camera.
His eyes scan the screen as he flips through the images of the senator and the house rep.
After what feels like an eternity, he takes in a deep breath.
“You’re the one sneaking shots of the senator and the house rep at that hotel, aren’t you? ”
“What do you want?” I ask in the most care free tone I can muster, considering my situation. “If it’s the photos, they didn’t even come out well. Plus, I only got 700 rubles, so it wasn’t even worth it. Now, let me go.”
It is easy for me to assume he didn’t hear a word of what I just said, because he keeps scrolling. Suddenly, he pauses. His eyebrows raise slightly and that smirk returns to his face.
“So apart from being a photographer, you’re also into making adult content.”
It isn’t a question. He knows.
My face burns. Oh God.
“No! No! No! You can’t go through those. Focus on the fucking senator!”
He tilts the camera toward me slightly, showing me the picture he’s looking at. It is one of me in a red lingerie set that I’d taken for my OnlyFans. Fucking hell!
“Nice shots,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving. The light from the screen teases his features. “I love how well you captured all the angles. The lighting on your skin is perfect here.”
I am about losing it.
“Didn’t you hear a thing I just said? Stop looking at those!”
“How much do you charge for these?”
Is he deaf or something?!
“None of your damn business!” I yell exasperatedly. I wish I can move my hands.
“I’m asking as a potential customer,” he says, his tone deceptively conversational. “This one with the black lace. How much for the full-resolution file?”
I don’t say a word, tugging at the ropes.
He looks up at me. “I’m serious. Name your price. I’ll pay double whatever your subscription costs.”
“I won’t sell shit to you, you pervert!” I snap, feeling my heart begin to thump hard and my hands grow damp.
“Pervert?” he actually sounds hurt. “I’m trying to support your business. You may not know but I love to support small businesses.”
The way he says it, anyone who hears will think he is referring to a clothing store business. He starts cackling to himself like it’s some internal joke only he gets.
“You’re disgusting,” I spit out.
“I’m being helpful. Though I have some feedback. This angle here, with your legs crossed like that. You should have arched your back more. Would have shown off your ass better.”
This fucking bastard.
He keeps scrolling. “This one on your side is great. But honestly? You should’ve pulled the bra down a little to show some nipple. Your subscribers would definitely pay extra for that.” “I don’t do nudity!”
“Shame.” He stops on another photo, studying it closely. “You’ve got the body for it. This one right here, the white set. If you’d taken off the panties, I’d pay you seven hundred thousand rubles just for this shot.”
“Seven hundred thousand?” The number slips out before I can stop myself.
And he knows it, because he grins, certain he’s got my attention now. “See? I knew you’d be interested in selling. How about this. I’ll buy your entire collection. Everything on this card. Name your price.”
“They’re not for sale to you!”
“Everything’s for sale, Zoya. You just haven’t heard the right number yet. What about custom content? I could commission you. Specific poses, specific outfits. I’d pay very well.”
“What would you even do with them?” My voice is down a notch.
His tone drops an octave, turning low and hungry. “Jerk off to them, obviously.”
My face burns hotter. I feel the pink patches spread through every surface.
He tilts his head, considering the screen with mock seriousness. “Though there’s none without the panties. I’ll have to search thoroughly for one without them. You sure you don’t have any fully nude shots hidden somewhere?”
“You’re revolting.”
He studies the camera screen for another moment. “Tell me, Zoya. When you took this photo - the one with your hand between your legs - were you actually touching yourself or just posing?”
I pull against the ropes hard enough that they cut deeper into my wrists. “Fuck you.”
"In due time." His voice drops, low and filthy. "But I digress. I'm asking for research purposes. If I'm going to jack off to this, I want to know if you were actually turned on when you took it." He pauses, then shakes his head. “Actually, don’t answer that. I prefer the mystery. It’s more fun.”
He walks over and hands the camera to the guy at the laptop, never once breaking eye contact with me.
“Make sure you don't look at the private photos. Just put them in a separate folder and send them straight to my phone.” The nerve of this man.
I spit on the ground right next to his foot, but he just smiles back, completely unbothered and amused.
I'm forced to sit in silence while his technician catalogs my private life. Five minutes pass. Then ten.