Chapter 3 – Raelyn
“Ugh. What’s wrong with me?” I mutter at my laptop.
The cursor blinks back at me like it’s judging my life choices.
I’m working on my assignment for Criminal Procedure and Evidentiary Analysis, my least favorite class and—unfortunately—one of the most essential to my degree. I have to get this right. I know that. But concentrating feels impossible when my thoughts keep circling back to him.
The man from earlier.
I sit at my desk, shoulders hunched, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard.
The memory of the way he watched my work won’t leave me alone.
Not glanced at—studied. Like he wasn’t just reading words but mapping something underneath them.
And his voice…low, steady, saying my name like it wasn’t the first time it had crossed his tongue.
I shake my head.
Get it together, Raelyn.
He’s probably a consultant, like I noticed earlier. One of those polished academic types professors bring in when they want to sound important. That explains the luxurious coat. The confidence. The intensity. I’ve been studying crime too long—paranoia comes with the territory.
That’s all this is.
I close my eyes and take a slow breath, forcing my thoughts back where they belong. Case law. Procedures. Evidence chains. Facts I can control. Things that don’t look at me like they already know my secrets.
When I open my eyes again, I start typing.
A knock sounds at my door about half an hour later.
“Ray, can I come in?” It’s Ellie.
“Of course.”
It opens a second later, and Ellie slips in, carrying a plate of grilled cheese cut into neat triangles and a mug of chamomile tea. Steam curls lazily into the air.
“This,” she says, setting everything down beside my laptop, “is for your brain. Chamomile relaxes the nervous system and improves focus.”
I glance at the food, then up at her. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life.”
She scoffs and watches me for a beat too long.
Then she narrows her eyes. “You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“What?” I scoff, way too fast. “No. Of course not.”
Ellie laughs, soft and knowing. “You liar. You so are.”
I groan and drop my head back against the chair. “Ellie. I’m trying not to, okay? Leave me alone. Don’t judge me.”
She just grins and taps the side of my mug. “Drink your tea, drama queen. And eat. You’ll spiral less.”
I glare at her, but I pick up the mug anyway.
Traitor.
I take a sip. Ellie nods with satisfaction, then turns to leave.
At the door, she pauses. “Raelyn, please, when you’re done, can you take out the trash?”
“Yes, I will, Ellie. Don’t worry about it.”
In this house, the only thing I do consistently is take out the trash. And that’s because Ellie is, kind of, a neat freak. She can’t bear to touch it. If she does, she’ll wash her hands with bleach for a week and still look haunted. So, it’s an unspoken rule. I handle it.
It’s literally my one household duty.
I finish my grilled cheese and sip the rest of my tea, and surprisingly, it works. My shoulders loosen. My thoughts slow. An hour passes, and I’m not even thinking about the stranger anymore.
Well. Except just now.
But really, I haven’t thought about him in at least an hour.
After I finish my assignment, I push back from my desk and stretch, my muscles protesting. I shut my laptop, grab the trash bag from the kitchen bin, and head out.
The courtyard is quiet, dimly lit by flickering streetlights. Shadows stretch long across the pavement. I walk down the steps with the bag swinging lightly at my side, the cool night air brushing against my skin.
I barely make it three steps.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth from behind.
My scream dies in my throat.
Another arm locks around my waist and yanks me off balance, lifting me clean off the ground. Panic detonates inside me. I kick, flail, try to twist free, but the grip is iron, practiced. Controlled.
There’s more than one of them.
Three men move in perfect sync. No shouting. No hesitation. One secures my wrists. Another presses something soft but suffocating between my teeth, muffling every sound. My vision disappears as fabric is pulled over my head.
Darkness.
My heart slams against my ribs as I’m carried forward, my feet barely grazing the ground. I hear the soft click of a door opening. Smell leather. Oil. Cold air.
A vehicle.
A black SUV.
I’m shoved inside. The door closes. Locks engage.
My wrists are bound tighter. My head spins. I strain to hear—catch fragments. Low voices. Calm. Efficient. Someone murmurs into a comms device, tone flat, professional.
This isn’t random.
This isn’t a mugging. Not panic-driven. Not sloppy. Not desperate.
This is planned.
A coordinated extraction.
The engine starts. The SUV pulls away from the curb.
I try to breathe. Try to think. Try to tell myself someone will notice I’m gone. That Ellie will come looking. That this will end with sirens and explanations and relief.
But fear floods every rational thought.
Different scenarios crash through my mind in brutal succession.
I’ll be tortured.
I’ll disappear.
I’ll die tonight.
Probably.
The vehicle picks up speed.
Whoever took me knows exactly what they’re doing.
Time blurs. Turns stretch too long. My body sways with motion I can’t track. Eventually, the SUV slows. Tires crunch over gravel. Gates hum open. Then stop.
Hands grip my arms again, and I’m hauled out, my feet touching ground for the first time since the courtyard. I stumble. Someone steadies me—not gently, not roughly. Efficiently.
I’m guided forward. Doors open. Cool air brushes my face.
Then the hood is yanked off.
Light floods my vision. I blink hard, sucking in a breath that catches painfully in my chest.
I’m standing inside a mansion.
Not a house.
Stone floors gleam beneath my feet. Black steel lines slice cleanly through the architecture. Glass walls rise high, overlooking a dark, endless forest. Everything is sharp. Modern. Cold. Controlled.
I turn to look ahead, and my stomach drops.
I see him.
Standing a few feet away, hands relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable.
The man from school.
My breath leaves me in a broken gasp. Horror crashes into confusion, into something worse. “You—” My voice trembles. “What…what is this?”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Just watches me with that same unnerving stillness, like nothing about this is unexpected. Like this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
“Who are you?” I demand, panic sharpening my tone. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Silence.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. “Answer me,” I say, voice cracking. “You can’t just—kidnap me. I’ll call the police. Do you hear me?”
I laugh, brittle and hysterical. “You’re insane. Who the hell are you?”
Still nothing.
His gaze never leaves my face.
And that’s when it hits me—the most terrifying realization yet.
This isn’t a mistake.
This isn’t a misunderstanding.
He knew exactly who I was. Not just from my report…he knew me before that.
“Are you done?” His voice is calm, measured, but the weight behind it sends a shiver down my spine.
“What?” I manage, my throat tight.
“You are not a victim of random violence,” he says, slow, deliberate. “You have been secured.”
The word makes my stomach twist. Secured. Like I’m property. Like I’m trapped.
He steps closer, and I feel the air shift around him. “I am Konstantin Rusnak,” he says.
The name hits me like a punch. Rusnak. Everyone in organized crime, every criminology seminar I’ve ever attended, knows that name. And what it means. Power. Control. Death whispered behind velvet words.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. Every word cuts.
“Your father,” he begins, “uncovered intelligence that belonged to criminal factions—including mine. He didn’t turn it in. He hid it…in ways only you could unknowingly carry. Now…multiple factions are hunting you for those fragments.”
I shake my head, words trembling out of me. “You’re insane! My father…he was a good man. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do anything like that!”
His face doesn’t change. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. Cold. Precise.
“You are a target,” he says, almost casually, and the words are like ice water down my spine. “And as your father’s last surviving link, you are also the payment for the danger he created.”
I gasp, my legs wobbling beneath me. My body shakes. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammer. “You have to let me go!”
He doesn’t even blink.
“You will remain here,” he says. “Permanently. Under my authority.”
The word permanently hits harder than the kidnapping. Harder than the guards. Harder than the gates I know are locked behind me.
“This house will protect you,” he continues, voice maddeningly calm. “But it will also control you. Your movements. Your access. Your contact with the outside world.”
My chest tightens. “You can’t do this,” I snap, panic sharpening my tone. “You can’t just keep me like—like some prisoner.”
“I can,” he says simply.
I scoff, brittle and disbelieving. “For what? I can’t give you anything. I don’t have money. I don’t know what my father supposedly took from you. I’m useless to you.”
For the first time, his mouth curves.
It’s not a smile.
It’s a knowing smirk.
“You’re wrong,” he says. “You’re the only thing that matters.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “What does that even mean?”
He takes one step closer.
Then another.
“You will marry me, Raelyn.”
The world tilts.
“What?” I whisper.
“Your father created this debt,” he continues, unhurried, relentless. “You will pay it.”
I stumble backward, horror crawling up my spine. “No. No, that’s insane. You’re insane.”
I keep backing away until there’s nowhere left to go, until the cold wall presses into my spine and I realize—fully, terrifyingly—that there is no exit. No negotiation. No rescue coming.
He watches me the entire time.
Not like a strategist calculating risk.
Not like a man assessing an asset.
But like a predator who has finally closed the distance.
And the worst part?
The hunger in his eyes isn’t just strategic. It’s personal.
Something inside me snaps.
I turn and run.
I reach the door and wrench at the handle. Locked. I slam my palm against it, once, twice, again. “Open it!” I scream, pounding harder. “Let me out!”
My voice cracks, desperation clawing its way out of my chest. I beat against the door, scream until my throat burns.
Nothing.
I spin around, and he snaps his fingers.
That’s all it takes.
Hands grab me from behind. Strong. Unyielding. I thrash, kicking, swinging wildly. I land a punch against someone’s chest. A slap connects with a face. I fight like an animal cornered.
They don’t fight back.
That’s what makes it worse.
They restrain me with clinical precision, arms locking mine, bodies bracing my weight. I scream. I curse. I struggle until my muscles shake and my breath comes in jagged sobs.
Konstantin doesn’t move.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t step in. Doesn’t stop them.
He just watches.
Minutes stretch into something shapeless. I don’t know how long I keep fighting. My arms burn. My legs give out. My head spins.
Eventually, my body betrays me.
My strength drains away until I’m sagging in their grip, chest heaving, tears streaking hot down my face.
Only then does he speak.
“Enough,” he says quietly.
The men release me immediately.
I drop to my knees on the cold floor, shaking, humiliated, exhausted. I hate that I’m crying. I hate that he’s seeing it.
His voice cuts through me again. “Your tears do nothing for me,” he says. “You’ll only hurt yourself. Give yourself a headache.”
Rage flares through the wreckage of fear.
“Go to hell,” I spit, literally and figuratively, the saliva landing somewhere near his shoes.
For the first time, a small smile touches his face.
It’s not amused. It’s approving.
“Blame your father,” he says calmly. “He failed to protect you. Instead, he placed you directly in harm’s way.”
The words shatter something fragile inside me.
I sob harder, the sound ripping out of my chest before I can stop it.
He turns slightly. “Nik.”
The man beside him steps forward. Pale hair. Sharp blue eyes. A soldier’s build that radiates discipline and danger.
“Take her to the guest room,” Konstantin says. “See that she has everything she needs to freshen up.”
“No,” I choke, scrambling to my feet. I lunge toward him—toward the only person who seems to matter in this nightmare—but I don’t even make it a step.
Hands catch me instantly. Iron grip. Unmovable.
I struggle, wild and desperate, but it’s useless.
Konstantin looks back at me, that same infuriating calm settling over his features.
“Get some rest, Raelyn,” he says softly.
Then he turns.
And walks away.
Leaving me restrained, shaking, and trapped in a house that has already made it clear—this is his world now.
And I’m not leaving it.