6. Eva
EVA
I’m half asleep when the door to the room clicks open, and a man steps inside.
I’m upright before I’m fully awake, heart slamming hard against my ribs.
It’s not the scarred face who kidnapped me, but it could be an associate.
This man is tall and broad-shouldered, with hair a bit darker than the other guy’s. He looks older, probably around my dad’s age.
“How are you doing?” he asks in a pleasant, Midwestern way, almost the way someone would ask you how you like the weather.
It pisses me off.
I stare at him.
Then I laugh.
“How do you think?”
I push up fully, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Good, there’s someone to throw my boiling anger at.
“There’s no bathroom in here,” I snap, pointing to the corner.
“So I’m pissing in a chamber pot like it’s the Victorian era.
There’s nothing to do. I’m bored out of my mind.
I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth, and I’m still wearing the same clothes I got kidnapped in. What, has it been two days?”
My voice rises with every word.
“And the food?” I laugh again. “Absolute garbage. This place is a shithole.”
He watches me the whole time, then laughs for real before his face turns cold.
“I’m sorry, did you think you’d checked into the Four Seasons?”
I scowl at him, feeling my neck get hot.
"Fuck you."
“Be patient,” he says easily.
That makes my stomach twist.
He takes a step closer, and every ounce of self-preservation in my body lights up.
My body moves before I can think, pushing me farther into the corner, ready to fight if I need to.
Unbothered, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls out his phone. He points it at me, and I hear the telltale snapping sound of a photo being taken.
He lowers the phone, glances at the screen, then slips it back into his pocket.
“I’ll send that to your father,” he says. “Let him know you’re alive, and in good faith.”
I scoff. “I told Frankenstein that my dad is not going to ride over here with his homies, all guns blazing as they storm the castle on my behalf.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“Women are expendable in his organization,” I go on. “I’m not some priceless asset. I’m not even a priority. You grabbed the wrong person.”
He gives me a thin smile. “Oh, I doubt that. Perhaps any other woman might be expendable, but I doubt that’s true when it comes to you.
I scoff. “You don’t know him.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I know men like him.”
He leans back slightly on the bed, like we’re having a casual conversation.
“And I know how they think when it comes to family.”
The words hit somewhere uncomfortable.
I shove the feeling down immediately.
“Jonas Sorenson will want his daughter back,” he continues. “And he’ll want her in one piece.”
I snort. “You’re giving him way too much credit.”
“Am I?” he asks, mildly.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment.
Then he shrugs a little, like it doesn’t matter to him.
I look away before he can see the reaction. He creeps me out.
“Look, it’s in your best interest to be good and helpful during your stay here.”
“Good and helpful?” I ask, shaking my head. “What does that even mean? Also, my stay? At the Chateau Shithole? You’re fucking joking, right?”
“I am not. This can be smooth and easy, or jagged and hard. I like the latter, if I’m honest, but it’s up to you. You can share information. That’s helpful.
“I don’t know anything you don’t already know.”
“We’ll see. Or,” he adds, almost casually, “other things.”
He stretches out the last word while his eyes move over me, making my skin crawl. “Touch me without consent, and I’ll bite your tongue off.”
He studies me for a second.
Not angry, but assessing.
Then he laughs softly, like I’ve said something funny.
“Pain doesn’t kill people,” he says mildly.
His eyes drag over me again.
“Panic does.”
Dread settles low and heavy in my stomach.
He stands and brushes off his hands as if this were just a bit of fun for him.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He pauses, wrinkling his nose slightly.
“You smell like piss,” he says mildly. “I’m not exactly tempted right now.”
His gaze drags over me one last time.
Slowly.
Clinical.
“But fear?” he says softly. “Fear’s useful.”
Ice runs down my spine.
“Try not to lose control of it.”
He leaves that threat hanging in the air and walks out.
The lock clicks shut behind him.
I stay frozen for a second, staring at the door.
My pulse won't slow down.
Which is probably exactly what he wanted.
Asshole.
I take a deep breath and make myself let it out.
Fear is useful.
That's what he said.
Too bad for him, I'm stubborn as hell.
I look at the door again, at the spot where he stood, and think about that photo already being sent to my father.
Will he come?
Or will he decide I'm not worth the trouble?
The thought turns my stomach.
I force myself to breathe through it.
Doesn’t matter.
Panicking won’t help me.
Thinking might.
There has to be a way out of this place.
I just have to find it before they decide I’m no longer useful.
My jaw tightens.
“Not happening,” I mutter.
The room hasn't improved since the last time I looked at it.
Still windowless.
Still depressing.
Still has the world’s most disgusting chamber pot.
I wrinkle my nose.
“Yeah, no,” I mutter. “Still not getting used to that.”
There’s a single roll of toilet paper next to it, so thin and rough it could be a human rights violation.
“Nope, this is definitely a Four Seasons shithole.” I let out a huff and start pacing.
Three steps one way, then turn, three steps back. The room isn’t big enough for more, but it’s enough to keep me from getting too wound up.
The only real pattern I’ve got is that they bring food twice a day.
Plastic forks, paper plates. Nothing I can turn into a weapon.
My eyes lift to the ceiling again.
And then I see it.
The vent.
It’s small and tucked into the corner, with the metal grate screwed on tight.
Hope sparks anyway.
I drag the chair under it and climb up, steadying myself with one hand against the wall.
No chance.
Even if I could get the cover off, there’s no way I’d fit through. I’m not built like a twig. I’ve got tits, ass, and legs. I take up space.
Even if I could fit, I don’t have the strength to pull myself up there like an action hero.
“Think,” I whisper.
Door.
Guard.
Food.
Routine.
Every system has weak spots.
There has to be one here, too.
Footsteps sound in the hallway.
I freeze.
A key scrapes into the lock.
The door opens.
The older woman from before.
Same severe gray hair. Same deliberately blank expression.
It’s like she’s trained herself not to react to anything.
She walks inside carrying a tray and never once looks directly at me.
Not even accidentally.
She crosses straight to the table, sets the food down, and turns to leave.
She acts like I’m just furniture.
Like, I don’t even exist.
None of them ever looks at me, apart from the two big guys.
Before I can stop myself, I say:
“Hey.”
She pauses at the door.
"I'm a person," I say sharply. "Not furniture. I’ve been kidnapped. I’m stuck in this creepy room while you all act like I’m invisible. Help me.”
Her back stiffens.
I keep going.
“My name’s Eva,” I say. “In case nobody bothered telling you that.”
Her hand tightens on the handle.
“Do you have one?” I add. “Or do they just not use names around here?”
Her jaw moves.
Subtle.
But it’s there.
“I’m not asking you to break me out,” I say, softer now. “I’m just asking you to acknowledge I exist.”
That lands.
I can feel it.
She exhales quietly.
Still facing away, she says, “Eat your food.”
Her voice is rough and low, like she doesn’t use it much.
Before I can say anything else, she steps out into the hallway.
The lock clicks behind her.
The room goes silent again.
I stand there for a second, shoulders tight, adrenaline still buzzing beneath my skin.
Then I force myself to breathe and head toward the table.
Dinner looks…good.
Real beef stew.
Big pieces of carrot and potato float in dark broth, and the meat looks so tender it might fall apart as soon as I touch it.
There’s fresh bread too, still warm, with an actual slab of butter beside it.
And a giant glass of cold water.
I stare at the tray suspiciously.
“Wait a minute, is that my last meal?”
The smell alone makes my mouth watery.
“Wow,” I mutter. “This is a disturbing improvement.”
I wish I were the kind of person who could commit to a dramatic hunger strike.
Unfortunately, I’m also starving.
I tear off a piece of bread first, mostly out of self-preservation.
If somebody poisoned me, maybe the carbs will help.
The butter melts instantly against the heat.
I take a bite and actually groan.
“Okay,” I mumble around the mouthful. “That’s annoyingly good.”
The stew is even better.
Rich broth. Tender meat. Real seasoning.
It’s delicious.
Four Seasons quality, honestly.
Whoever made this absolutely did not learn to cook in captivity.
I eat every last bite, wipe up the broth with bread, and finish the water like I haven’t had a drink in days.
By the end, I almost feel human again.
Honestly, that feels dangerous in its own way.
I lean back in the chair, staring at the locked door.
It was progress.
Not much.
But enough.
She spoke.
That means she reacted.
And reactions can be exploited.
I tap my fingers against the table.
“Okay,” I murmur.
Maybe the vent isn't the way out after all.
Maybe she is.
For the first time since waking up here, I finally have something useful:
A target.