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Nothing.
Tears pricked behind my eyes as I kicked the double doors. My eyes darted back to the windows, and I immediately dismissed the notion that I could escape that way. Frantic, I ran back to the hallway; there had to be an emergency exit. I tried several doors that were all locked.
Finally I found one that led up to a small terrace oasis offering a picturesque New York skyline. I took a deep inhale of city air and tilted my head up to the stars. Gosh—I’ve missed fresh air in the couple of days I’ve been here. A shadow of movement had spooked me from my gazing, and I scanned around to find five guards positioned on the terrace. They all had their eyes trained on me, one of the men reaching up to his ear to speak.
Crap.
Of course, there would be no solitude. Luka had managed to ruin the most peaceful place in his penthouse with burly men and suits. Although, as I backpedaled back into the house, I was grateful he kept the inside penthouse free from guards.
I tried again the next night, and then the next. Alone in the penthouse, I scoured it for exits or unblocked paths, but I was met with locked doors, more guards, and endless security. With my fists clenched and a sudden, sharp intake of breath, I let out a scream in frustration.
I was trapped.
I slipout of my bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’m running out of toothpaste and I’m unsure what the protocol is for a kidnapped victim asking for supplies.
I’ve been surprised I’m not lacking anything. Almost anything I need is at my disposal, and my stomach drops when I catch myself thinking that way. Guilt creeps in. I’m enjoying the comforts of being here. Clearly, I’m delusional and would trade any comfort for my freedom. The constant weight of money—do I have enough for groceries, enough for the subway, the exhaustion of working endless hours to save and only feeling like I’m drowning—that weight has lifted temporarily and I hate myself for it.
I raided the fridge at odd times, and know Ilena was leaving leftovers for me when she cooked for Luka. I wasn’t cold, hungry, or lacking in basic needs at all, but I was still here against my will, no matter how comfortable I was.
I gaze in the mirror at the city’s reflection, the sparkling lights of a world moving on without me. The sounds of the city are muffled by the penthouse soundproofing, I assume. I never slept in my apartment without hearing a play-by-play of every noise surrounding the block. But here, it is quiet and still.
I turn off the bathroom light and make my way back to my bed, pulling back the covers and glass shatters.
I freeze, heart picking up its pace until it’s drumming in my chest. My head swivels toward the door. For each of the nights I spent here alone, I never was fearful. I was secure. But now—now the muscles in my legs tense as I drift toward the hall. Another small crash followed by a short grunt echo along the hallway and I wander toward the noise.
I suck in a short gasp when I see Luka in the kitchen. His white long-sleeve button-down is splattered with blood, and he leans over near the sink, fumbling with a first aid kit. My eyes spot the shards of glass and water sprawling along the marble floor. He lifts a large package of gauze to his mouth, trying to rip it open with his teeth.
“Luka?” I say in a whisper.
He stills, eyes finding mine. “Go back to your room,” he commands, but his eyes betray him and trail down my pajamas, lingering on my bare legs.
Crap. I forgot I only had a nightshirt on.
He resumes his clumsy handling of the gauze and it’s clear his hands are the problem. Blood is dripping down his knuckles and small cuts overwhelm his fists. I approach the sink, eyeing him, but he ignores me. I don’t miss the way he inhales a sharp breath as I inch closer.
“What are you doing?” His words are fuming, but they still provoke me to come closer.
His back is to me, his chest rising and falling as I wait there. Broad shoulders tighten with tension rivaling what’s in the kitchen, the air pulling taut around us. Dark ink is visible through his white shirt, which takes up most of his back. It’s a mural along his tan skin that I want to explore. I don’t even realize I’m pressing the shirt to his back to get a better view until Luka growls, whipping around to face me.
"I said, go back to your room." His words are less demanding. His eyes are wide and wild, his hair messy, and the muscles in his jaw twitch.
I step back, glancing at the kitchen knives, and then to the elevator. Would it work? The thought of grabbing a knife and stabbing him flashes at me, and I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth.
Do it.
“Go ahead. Try.” His eyes peer down at me, having read my thoughts, and he is seemingly unfazed. “You wouldn’t get out of the building.”
“Why? Because you’d kill me?” My fingers twitch with the need to hightail it out of here.
Luka’s eyes widen, and his gaze shifts to his bleeding hands.
I scowl up at him and hold his gaze while reaching out to take the package of gauze from him. With trembling hands, I tear open the package and pull the first aid kit closer to us. I hold out a hand for him, and when he stares at me, I pull his hand toward me, applying pressure with the sterile gauze.
A hiss breaks through the silence, and his pupils dilate as they study my face.
“Are you going to tell me why I’m here?” I ask.
The warm, rough, and calloused hands are the opposite of what I’d assume they’d be. My own hands flex over his while I concentrate on cleaning his cut, doing my best to avoid the scenarios reeling through my mind that led to this.
