Sloane
Pain came first.
A dull, pounding ache at the base of my skull that pulsed with every slow beat of my heart. Then the pressure: tight, cutting, hot against my wrists and ankles. My skin burned where the ropes dug into it. My mouth was dry, my tongue heavy.
I tried to move and couldn’t.
The panic didn’t come all at once.
It arrived in pieces, in fragments. It started with the slow realization that my arms were pinned behind the back of a chair. It rose when I felt that my knees were tied together and my ankles were bound to the legs of the chair. My spine was aching from the angle and my neck throbbed from where someone had grabbed me too hard.
I forced my heavy eyelids to open.
The room was too bright. A single industrial light buzzed overhead, humming like a warning signal. The walls were gray cinderblock, stained in places with God knows what. No windows. No furniture. I registered the echo of water in the pipes somewhere off in the distance and the harsh sound of my own breathing.
I opened my mouth to speak and tasted blood.
Fuck.
I was bleeding.
The metallic tang bloomed across my tongue, and I remembered the van. The cloth. Everything. That’s when the panic arrived in full.
“Well, you look like hell.”
I blinked again.
Stillwell.
He stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of a tailored navy suit, composed and polished as ever, like he was giving a press conference and not watching me bleed under fluorescent lighting.
“You’re awake. That’s good,” he said, walking slowly across the room. “We weren’t sure how long you’d be out. You don’t weigh much.”
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him.
“You’re wondering why,” he said casually. “Why now. Why you. Why this.”
He crouched down in front of me, eyes level with mine, and far too close. His cologne hit me like acid—synthetic and sharp, covering something rotten beneath.
“It’s because you were careless.”
I glared at him. “Go to hell.”
He chuckled softly. “You’re not in a position to give orders, sweetheart. That’s what got you here in the first place.”
He stood again, brushed invisible lint off his jacket.
“I know about the sting your Russian saviors are setting up,” he said. “The shell company. The money trail. The fake drop. All of it. Clever. Sloppy, but still sort of clever.”
I went still.
“And imagine my surprise,” he continued, circling behind me now, voice softer, more poisonous, “when I found out the mayor’s darling daughter—Nikolai Morozov’s future wife—was helping engineer it, especially considering she also screwed some of my very close friends out of a whole lot of money.”
I said nothing.
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He came to a stop just behind my chair.
“I haven’t decided what to do with you yet,” he said. “I could make you disappear. Say it was an overdose. Tragic, but not surprising for a party girl like you. The press would eat it up.”
He stepped in front of me again.
“Or I could keep you. Send pieces of you back to him one at a time. Let him feel what it’s like to lose something he never deserved in the first place.”
My heart pounded so hard I thought it might bruise my ribs.
He crouched again, this time close enough that I could see the veins in his eyes, the sweat beading at his hairline.
“But that’s messy,” he said. “So maybe I ransom you. Use you as leverage. Remind your father that he’s not untouchable. Remind Nikolai what happens when you fuck with people who know how to make power last.”
I spat at his feet. It landed short, but he got the message.
He stood slowly, eyes hard.
“Brave,” he said. “But brave won’t save you. Neither will he.”
He turned toward the door.
“You’ll stay here until I make up my mind. But don’t worry.”
He looked back once, over his shoulder, his gaze roving up and down my body and I shuddered at the blatant insinuation in his dark orbs.
“I’ve always liked watching little girls squirm.”
He smiled, his expression predatory, and I tilted my chin up, not showing him even ounce of fear even as my blood ran ice cold.
I knew without a doubt that given the chance, he would hold me down and use me just like he had done to all those underage girls, and that terrified me as much as it enraged me.
The door slammed shut behind him, and I was alone again.
Thank God.
I let out a slow shaky breath, and let my head fall forward slightly. Not in surrender, no; just to ease the tension in my neck.
I needed to figure out a way to get out of here.
My ankles were bound to the legs of the chair. Rope. Not zip ties. Which meant there was a give. I tested it—tiny shifts, just the movement of my toes inside my shoes, the flex of my calves. Nothing yet, but maybe. My hands were tied behind my back at the wrists, the chair design forcing them down low and keeping them immobile. I couldn’t feel the knot, couldn’t even tell if it was standard or something custom, but it was tight.
I shifted again.
The chair creaked. It was metal, cold against the backs of my legs, bolted down or heavy enough not to move easily. Not helpful.
I looked around the room.
No windows. No vents low enough for me to reach. Just four concrete walls, and a single camera in the top corner of the room. It was aimed down and slightly off center; tilted, old, probably analog. Maybe recording, maybe just there to remind me I was being watched or maybe it wasn’t even working at all.
I stared straight at it for a moment.
Let whoever was behind it, if anyone, know that I wasn’t the type of girl to start crying.
I scanned the floor. There was a small stain to my left—coffee? Something darker? A strip of rubber by the door where the seal had been kicked out. No other furniture. No tools. No exposed screws. The walls were cracked at the base, but only shallow hairlines. The ceiling was too far up to reach, even if I had my legs free.
No weapons.
No resources.
Just me.
And rope.
And time.
I shifted again, testing the pressure around my right wrist. Twisted slightly. Wincing at the burn of rope against my skin as I moved, I felt something move. The knot shifted by a fraction. It wasn’t quite loose, but it certainly wasn’t perfect.
Good.
The lights above buzzed again, louder this time, like a fly against a window.
I thought about Nikolai.
Not the man the press whispered about, but the man who had pressed kisses into my shoulder when he thought I was asleep. The man who had told me he loved me even though I was nothing but trouble.
He would come; of that I had no doubt. But if I could find a way out before he got here, even better.
I tested the rope again—twisting, pulling, biting back a cry as it scraped deeper into my skin. One knot. One weak loop. One second of inattention, and I’d turn the tables, because I wasn’t waiting to be rescued.
I was already planning my escape.
