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Prologue - Ava
Twelve Months Ago
With a long stare at the dimly flickering yellow light bulb above the rusty prison cell, I threw my head back on one of the cold steel bars and rubbed my arms. Julianna’s thick vintage fleece sweater was useless against the cold; it seeped through the fabric, and I knew the chill was more than just the temperature.
The intensity of his gaze grazed my skin, and a stinging heat seared the side of my face. I didn't need to look at him, I could make out his silhouette from the darkness in which he blended perfectly. I could feel him watching me. He was leaning against the wall with his broad shoulders and his legs crossed as if he were a perfect gentleman admiring his freaking trophy in a gilded cage.
Tap. Tap.
He watched my every move as I tilted my head to stare at the light bulb, moved my foot to squash a miserable cockroach, or simply stared through the steel bars and imagined my freedom.
He caught everything—every single thing.
The temperature in the room rose from second to second, from cold to hot and then scorching hot, and soon I wanted nothing more than to rip the vintage sweater off my body to breathe. Or better still, survive.
His not-so-secret gaze was stern and unreadable, I tried to look away.
But it did not help. Nothing helped. Not my feigned ignorance that he wasn’t in the room, or the low humming I tried to distract myself with ... nothing. He was playing a game—a fucking mind game, but I saw through it.
His intention danced in the room like a red neon sign “Read me”. It couldn’t be more obvious. He wanted to see me break down, and crack under the pressure. Begging, screaming, crawling. Go insane probably—and the thought wasn't far-fetched. But he—whoever he was—be damned!
His dark eyes, almost black, held mine with a firm intensity, and I could still see his huge, tall frame against the wall, with one hand crossed over the other and one finger tap, tap, tapping away on his arms. His very noticeable arms. Dressed in dark pants and a white-collar shirt, I couldn't look away.
The first time he visited my cage, he was wearing a dull gray short-sleeved cotton shirt that clung tightly to his biceps. It should have been crazy for a captive to stare at her captor’s biceps as if they were one of the wonders of the world, but that didn’t register at the time.
I gaped.
Black ink tattooed all over like a whole sleeve—symbols, signs, images, and nothing I could understand. I should have been repulsed by the sight of pale skin marred with excess color, but strangely, I felt something. Something like intrigue.
Plus, he had just the right amount of muscle and hands big enough to crush an esophagus. I chewed on the inside of my cheek. What was I doing, thinking about his biceps? This man wanted to kill me and feed my body parts to the beasts of the field.
I closed my eyes.
The dry throat, the slight throbbing of my head, and the parched tongue did nothing to help the heaviness that weighed on my mind, and when I remembered that I hadn't seen the sun in days, the salty tears at the back of my eyes burned even more.
I sniffled. He scoffed. The tension in the air thickened the moment his long legs stepped out from the shadows and came closer.
My breath hitched.
As I saw his full frame in the dim light, tremors ran down my spine and I got stuck on the spot as if I had glue under the soles of my shoes.
I tilted my head back again. The light bulb was beyond my center of focus. I had always considered myself to be taller than average. My height of five feet ten proved that. But this man towered over me; his shadow cast over mine and enveloped me in his icy presence without remorse.
I tried to stay calm and unbothered. Then, my eyes met his, and I hiccupped, literally.
The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips and lit up the hollowness in his eyes. He crooked his head to one side, like a predator watching its prey.
“Don’t tell me you want to cry?”
He was handsome. Dangerously handsome if there is such a thing. And it didn’t help when he showed even the smallest bare of straight white teeth. It made him look so damn ... attractive. Aside from his dark, well-trimmed beard and overly tense jaw, he had the sharpest, yet most gorgeous masculine features I’d ever seen. Except for his eyes. Dark and eerily soulless, as he stared at me.
I sniffled again and tried to put on a poker face. “I'm not going to give you that pleasure. It's cold in here.”
“And that is why you have tears in your eyes?”
His voice. It was deep, dark—just like his eyes—and had a warm rumble of Russian accent that wrapped itself around my body like fine silk. It was crazy, but I liked it. And that annoyed me.
I gritted my teeth. “Don’t you have anything better to do, other than watching me?”
