Page 1 of Hostage with Benefits'

CHAPTER 1

I didn’t askto be kidnapped on a random Tuesday.

Tuesdays were objectively the worst day of the week. Monday at least had the decency to warn you it was going to be terrible. Tuesday pretended to be normal until it stabbed you in the back.

Or in my case, until a mountain of a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow threw me over his shoulder in a Trader Joe’s parking lot while I was still clutching a bag of frozen dumplings.

“Put me down,” I said, my voice flat because honestly, the energy required to sound properly terrified was beyond me after the day I’d had. My therapist would call this a trauma response, but I called it just a usual Tuesday.

The man said nothing, just deposited me in the back of a black SUV with windows tinted so dark they were probably illegal in this state. Probably all states. But I guessed when you were the type of person who casually kidnapped women from grocery store parking lots, vehicle regulations weren’t high on your priority list.

I should have been screaming, I realized. I should have been fighting. Instead, I was wondering if my dumplings would defrost before I could get them into a freezer. If I ever saw a freezer again.

The man slid into the driver’s seat. He smelled like expensivecologne. It was… not unpleasant, which was a thought I immediately tried to evict from my brain.

“Natalia Petrova?” His accent was thick. His eyes, though, were cold. The kind of blue that made you think of hypothermia.

“That depends on who’s asking and whether they plan on returning me to my apartment before my dumplings defrost.”

His eyes narrowed at me.

“I am Mikhail Volkov.” He said this like I should recognize the name. “Your father has something that belongs to me.”

Of course.Of coursethis was about my father. Everything terrible in my life circled back to that man.

Mikhail studied me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces.

“You will be my guest until he returns what is mine.”

Guest. That was a fancy word for hostage. But sure, let’s go with that.

“Does your… hospitality include Wi-Fi? I have a deadline with a client tomorrow. I promise I won’t contact the cops.”

For a second, he looked genuinely confused. Like the idea that I might have a job, responsibilities, a life that didn’t revolve around being kidnapped was completely foreign.

“You are not afraid,” he stated. Not a question.

I shrugged. “I’m exhausted. Fear requires energy I don’t have right now.”

An hour later, the car turned onto a private road. I wondered if anyone had seen me being taken, if anyone besides my clients would notice I was gone.

“Most people cry when they are kidnapped,” he said.

“Most people don’t have four years of therapy and only an empty savings account to show for it.” I stared out the window. “Also, I’m still deciding if this is worse than the client call I was dreading.”

His knuckles tightened on the wheel. He wore a ring on his right hand, silver with some kind of crest. It was the kind of ring that would leave a mark if it connected with someone’s face.

The car slowed as we approached a gate that looked like it belonged at a military installation rather than at a private residence.Beyond it, a house rose up against the evening sky. Mansion was probably a more accurate term for this building.

“Welcome to my home,” Mikhail said as the gates parted.

“Charming,” I replied. “Very supervillain chic.”

I caught the briefest upturn of the corner of his mouth. It was just a twitch of his lip, like his face had momentarily forgotten its job was to be a marble statue.

He stopped the car, then opened the door for me and urged me to follow him.

Inside, the mansion was exactly what you’d expect from someone who casually kidnapped people on weekdays: minimal but expensive furniture, no personal photos, tacky golden ornaments everywhere. The kind of place that looked like a movie set and not a real home.

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