Page 22 of The Contract

He’s everything I’m not. Dangerous. Quiet. Controlled. While I’m trapped like a mouse with nowhere to go but through the cat.

I force myself to stay still, even as every nerve screams to run. Because what would be the point? There’s nowhere to go. And pissing off a psycho feels like the wrong kind of brave.

He’d catch me.

He already has.

And if he kills the fire…

Turns the room pitch black…

His gaze drops to my mouth.

Goosebumps scatter as two strong fingers slide beneath my chin, tilting my face to one side, then the other.

Like he’s inspecting damage on a vintage Aston Martin he’s already decided to kill for.

His thumb hovers near the bruise. He doesn’t touch it. But I flinch. I always flinch.

A hand too close. A shadow in my periphery. That’s all it takes.

I hate that I can’t control it. That split-second reaction that gives me away.

Like a well-trained circus horse, too used to performing through the sting of the whip to remember how not to react.

But what I hate most is the pity I know I’ll see in his eyes?—

My kidnapper.

A murderer.

A monster in a mask I shouldn’t give two shits about. But the thought of his pity grates against me.

But the only thing that comes his words, low, almost idle. “The man who touched you paid for this.”

Paid…with his life. The words hang unspoken, but I feel the weight of them in a way that trembles every bone in my body.

When a strong finger feathers beneath my chin, I let it. Let him.

Not just because I’m frozen with fear.

It’s the way he looks at me—like a fallen god admiring the fresh, trembling virgin sacrifice laid out at his feet.

And because I’m obviously down a few brain cells, the fear I’ve carried like a shadow my whole life just… disappears. Evaporates like smoke.

Click. The tie around my wrists releases—cut clean through. “Better?” the Russian asks softly.

A few dozen podcasts about trauma bonding to avoid Stockholm syndrome scream through my brain.

“Yes. Thank you,” I whisper, eyes locked on the shape of his shadow. “Where are we?”

The question sounds too small. Too soft for the room.

The shadow shifts. A ripple in the air. The weight of him moving.

“Where you’ll be staying for the night,” he says. “Somewhere safe.”

“Safe?”

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