Page 5 of Captured Obsession

I just need to move and push past these thoughts that are trying to tell me I’m going to die. No, I’m notdying here. I abruptly shut that mental door and lock it.

I pick up the pieces of vase splintered on the floor. I'm on my hands and knees, trying my hardest to focus on the task at hand as I try not to let my reality sink in.

I’ve been kidnapped.

All the stuff he said about my friends and their husbands has to be a lie. Surely, they didn't leave me out of something that huge? But I can't help letting doubt trickle in. In recent years, everyone's been going through stuff, isolating themselves. I thought it was normal for their relationships. But perhaps I’d been too immersed in my own relationship to pick up on the subtlety of what lay beneath theirs.

“Ow!” I slice my finger on a piece of the vase, and tears well in my eyes, as if this one singular task is the only thing keeping me sane. I sit back against the wall as the tears slide down my cheeks. This is bad. This is so bad, and I don't know how to get out of this situation. Will any of my girlfriends from London even realize I'm gone? Will Romi suspect something when I don’t reply to her messages? She knows I was partying tonight, like I do most weekends, so she might not think anything of it.

Fuck.

What if the grade-A asshole is speaking the truth? Then who does that make him? What part does he have to play in the underworld? Who is he working for?

“I'm really going crazy.” If I believe any of this, it only opens the door to more uncertainty. But as I look around the room, my hand bleeding, what else can I possibly believe right now?

I'm scared. I'm angry. And I'm sick of men pushing me around. It terrifies me that although this is the most fucked-up situation I’ve ever been in, I don't find myself trembling from fear. It's mostly rage, which feels far more dangerous.

So, he thinks because he kidnapped me, that I have to roll over and be a good girl? He thinks his towering height and slabs of muscle intimidate me or that his thick Russian accent entices me to listen?

That motherfucker has another thing coming. And so, I dry up the tears and find a fierce resolve in wanting to ruin the life of every man in this establishment.

I stand, still a little wobbly. Who knows, I may still be sobering up, or it could be the aftereffects of whatever drug they slipped me. I step over to what I assume is a window and throw open the silk curtains. I find two wooden shutters impeding my view. When I go to open them to get a glimpse of what might be outside, I realize they’re locked with a padlock.

Unfortunately for that asshole, breaking out of my home as a teenager to go to parties was a particular specialty of mine. I root around in my hair for a bobby pin, pluck one loose, then I get to work on the lock.

It takes less than a minute before I hear thatsatisfying click. I remove the padlock and open the shutters. The moment the fresh, sea-scented air hits my face, I sigh with relief. But when I look down, that relief is replaced with dismay at the two-story distance from my prison cell to the ground.

The building appears to be surrounded by forest, and beyond the trees, I spot the glimmer of the ocean under a near-full moon. I can’t tell where I am, but I do know wherever it is, it’s isolated.

As I gauge if I can jump to the branch beneath me, the nauseating swirl of the drop has me halting thoughts of doing anything so reckless. I don’t even know if it’s possible to scale down the tree. But the leap across is too great. If I miss… If I slip…

“Fuck.”

I hear one of his men speaking in Russian outside the door and then a woman's voice replies just as fluently.

I quickly close the window, scamper to click the lock back into place, and whip the curtains shut. By the time the woman enters the room, I’m pacing back and forth. I imagine I look like the perfect example of a woman who's just realized she's been kidnapped.

The woman looks to be in her sixties, with mostly gray hair and a scowl on her face. I size her up. I don’t think she can physically hurt me, but her steely gaze might suggest otherwise. Then again, I’ve never fought anyone in my life. What am I even thinking? Shespeaks with a thick Russian accent, but nonetheless addresses me in English.

“My name is Agata, and I am here at your service on behalf of Nikolai.”

My eyebrows dip. “Is that the name of the asshole who kidnapped me?”

Agata clicks her tongue. “Yourvisithere will be much more comfortable if you use your manners.”

My jaw drops. “No offense, but are you going to lecture me about manners when I've beenkidnapped?” I emphasize the word, not entirely sure this woman—who looks like a sweet old lady, despite the scowl—understands my circumstances.

She ignores my comment, and her gaze drops to my hand. “You're bleeding. Let me tend to that,” she says, taking a step toward me as she pulls out a silk handkerchief from her pocket. She makes a quick scan of the broken vase but says nothing.

I back away from her. There’s no way I’m letting this woman near me. I don’t know her or her association with the asshole who put me in here.

She seems impatient but reads my distrust. “You are not just any old prisoner. You're a valuable asset that Nikolai has instructed me to attend to. If anything happens to you, I will be punished.”

My mouth opens, and I bark, “Are you trying to guilt trip me, old hag?”

“Such a disrespectful tongue,” she bites back.

I scoff in disbelief. Has everyone here lost theirmind? They're all acting as if this is completely normal. But maybe in their world it is.