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I pull at the thick, scratchy ropes on my wrists, but they barely move. Whoever tied me up did a damn good job, and they didn’t want to risk me escaping, but I’m not going to just sit here and let life happen to me. I have to find a way out of this. My life very well might depend on it.
I feel clothing on my body that wasn’t there when I went to bed. I usually sleep in just a pair of panties, but there’s something on my shoulders, the weight of a cheap shirt. It almost feels like a bag with a hole cut in the top for my head.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t come with a belt or shoes that I could use to saw through the ropes. I never thought the videos I saw online about what to do if you’re kidnapped held any weight in the real world, anyway. It sucks that I was right.
I squirm around in the chair until I hear a noise, the iron grating of a heavy door being opened in front of me, and then I freeze. I try to relax my body so that they think I’m still asleep, but when the light flickers on, I’m stunned by it, blinking and trying to adjust to the piercing hue of the purple-tinged florescent tubes lining the ceiling.
I can see the room now, but there isn’t much to take note of, so my eyes are quickly drawn to a man in scrubs walking toward me with a clipboard and a thin metal flashlight.
I make a sound as he stops in front of me, but he pretends like I’ve said nothing, clicking his flashlight on and shining it into my eyes, one at a time.
I groan at him again through the gag.
No response.
He places his fingers on my wrist, checking my pulse, and then he scribbles something onto his clipboard and walks out of the room, leaving the door open and the lights on. If there was ever a chance to escape, it’s now.
I try to rock the chair, perhaps to knock it over and break it so that I can free myself from the ropes, but it doesn’t move. I think it’s bolted to the floor.
Fuck. I don’t have anything that can help me.
I look down at myself, and I realize I’m wearing what appears to be a small blanket with a hole cut through the top.
Questions bubble to the surface of my mind, each one more desperate and fearful than the previous, but they all come to a halt when a large man with wide shoulders and cold grey eyes walks through the doorway.
“Good morning, Taylor. I hope they weren’t too rough with you,” Danya says, walking toward me and looking me over like I’m some fruit on the verge of spoiling. “James was not very gentle with you, I see. I don’t care much for the man, to be quite honest.”
I yell at him through the gag, and he gives me a pitying look. “We will get you cleaned up and dressed in a bit. I just want to give you the opportunity to wake up fully before we talk business. Is that alright?”
I shake my head no, wincing at the dull ache inside, like my brain has become too big for my skull.
Danya purses his lips in an apologetic smile. “I will give you another moment, and then we will talk. I’m sure you have many questions.” He turns and walks out the door again, and I’m left in the overly bright room to stare at the doorway and question my existence for another five minutes before being bothered again.
This time, Danya isn’t alone.
My father walks behind him, looking around his large figure at me as though he needs to use Danya as a shield. He’s embarrassed, but what man wouldn’t be for doing this to his daughter?
If I could get up right now, I would strangle him to death.
Danya comes up to me, and I can smell the smoke on his breath as he leans down and moves the gag away from my mouth.
I glare at my father as he steps out from behind Danya, coming into full view and clasping his hands together as though he’s about to apologize.
But he doesn’t get the chance to before I spit in his direction. “What the fuck are you doing?!” I scream.
“Calm down,” he says. “You brought this on yourself.”
Danya shakes his head, and I can’t tell if it’s at me or my father.
“You’re a fucking rat,” I snarl. “Both of you. What the hell do you think you’re doing, grabbing a woman from her bed and taking her… wherever we are?”
“Russia,” Danya says, offering a smile. He gestures to my father. “And James has already brought all your documents. Passports, photographs, certificates… You will be prepared for the wedding, and we should be able to commence with the ceremony by the end of the week.”
“I’ll die before I marry you,” I reply with righteous, seething anger.
“Be careful what you say,” my father chimes. “I’m not sure how long you’d last on the streets of Russia without so much as a pair of pants.”
“Are you insane?” I ask, but I already know he must be.
