I shake my head, trying to dislodge thoughts that have no place in my current situation. Stockholm syndrome, that's what this is. Some psychological defense mechanism where captives start sympathizing with their captors because survival instinct overrides rational thought.
Except it started before the kidnapping. Before I even knew his name or understood the danger lurking behind those morning visits to my café. It started the first time Vega knocked into me, when Luka's eyes met mine, and something sparked in the air between us. I told myself it was nothing more than startled surprise from the collision.
I’ve been lying to myself for days, pretending it didn’t shake me, the way he watched me in the café, his eyes following every move I made. Pretending my hands didn’t tremble when I set down his Americano and felt his attention drag over me like a touch I wasn’t ready for. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than normal caution around a stranger who radiated danger. But deep down, I knew it was more than that.
Footsteps sound on the stairs below, cutting through my spiraling thoughts and dragging me back to the present momentwith a sudden, breath-stealing jolt. My pulse kicks up before I can stop it, hammering against my ribs. He's coming back.
I should retreat to the far corner of the room and put as much distance as possible between myself and the door. I should prepare myself for another interrogation or worse. But instead, I find myself frozen near the window, my fingers digging into my palms while heat floods my cheeks at the memory of our last encounter. His body was so close I could smell cedar and smoke on his skin and feel the leashed violence radiating from him in waves. His hazel eyes bore into mine, stripping away every defense I tried to construct, leaving me raw and exposed beneath the force of his suspicion.
The footsteps grow closer, reaching the landing outside my door. They pause for a moment, long enough that I imagine him standing there with his hand on the doorknob, deciding whether to enter or walk away. Then the door handle turns with a soft click that sounds deafening in the silence. My breath hitches, trapped somewhere between my lungs and throat, refusing to release as the hinges whisper open.
Luka fills the doorway the way he's filled every doorway I've ever seen him enter. Tall enough that his dark hair nearly brushes the frame, broad-shouldered and imposing in ways that have nothing to do with physical size and everything to do with presence. His immaculate suit looks barely rumpled despite hours of wear, the fabric tailored so precisely it moves with him like a second skin, emphasizing the powerful build hidden beneath expensive wool and silk.
But it's his eyes that lock me in place. Those hazel depths that glint between gold and green depending on the light, currently shadowed and stormy with emotions I can't begin to decode.They find me instantly near the window with a focus that makes my stomach flip and my breath stutter.
Vega trots in behind him, the German shepherd's nails clicking against the hardwood before he settles near the cold fireplace with a contented sigh. The dog watches us both with those intelligent dark eyes, his head resting on his paws, looking like he's waiting for a show to begin.
The thought would be funny under different circumstances. Now it just adds to the surreal quality of this entire situation, this impossible nightmare I can't seem to wake from, no matter how hard I try.
Rage barrels through my chest, blistering hotter than the fear that tries to creep up my spine. The anger feels safer than the other emotions swirling through me, and easier to grasp and wield like a weapon when everything else threatens to overwhelm my fragile control.
“You abduct me,” I spit out, each word sharpened by hours of frustration and helplessness, and every indignity I've suffered since he hauled me into that SUV and drove me away from my life. “You accuse me of things I don't understand. You keep me from my sister, my café, and everything I've spent years trying to hold together. And you still have yet to apologize for your dog!”
The last accusation bursts out before I can stop it, petty and ridiculous compared to everything else, but somehow it feels important. My mind flashes with images of the collision outside Bean & Bloom, coffee splattered across me and the pavement after Vega knocked into me with enthusiastic friendliness, his tail wagging like we were old friends reuniting after years apart.
Vega lifts his head at the mention of his transgression, ears twitching as if I've personally insulted his character. His dark eyes flick from me to Luka, then back again, before he releases a long-suffering sigh that sounds almost human in its exasperation. He drops his muzzle back to his paws with an air of wounded dignity. Even he thinks I'm being unreasonable.
Luka’s expression doesn’t change, but a flicker sparks behind his hazel eyes. He steps inside with movements so controlled they terrify me more than sudden violence ever could. Each stride closes the distance between us with inevitable certainty, like a tide rolling in against the shore.
The door clicks shut behind him, the sound resonating through my bones. Another barrier between me and escape, reminding me that I'm completely at his mercy.
My back hits the wall before I realize I've retreated. Heat courses through my veins as Luka continues his approach. Six steps. Five. Four. Each one brings him closer until I can see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, and the way his pupils dilate as his eyes rake over me from head to toe.
My chest heaves with uneven breaths I can't control, and I force myself to hold his stare even though every instinct screams at me to look away and make myself small and unthreatening. But I've never been good at making myself small. My mother taught me better than that, raising me to stand tall even when everything inside wants to crumble.
“Enemies don't glare at me the way you do,printsessa.”
The words slide across my skin, making me shiver. His voice is low, mocking, and smooth as silk. The Russian endearment sounds condescending yet intimate.Princess. He calls meprincess like it's an insult and an endearment all at once, as if he can't decide whether to punish me or protect me.
“What about my café?” The words tumble out, desperation bleeding through the anger. “What happens when I’m not there in the morning? Jenny can’t run it on her own. Do you know what one day of lost sales will do to me? It will be on your conscience when I lose everything!” I shout.
My hands fly up, shoving at his chest with all the strength I can summon. The impact jars through my arms, shooting pain up to my shoulders, accomplishing nothing except proving how futile resistance truly is. I may as well have pushed against the stone wall behind me for all the good it does. He doesn't budge, doesn't even sway, just stands there absorbing my fury like it's nothing more than a passing breeze.
His hands flash upward before I can try again, catching my wrists in an iron grip that stops my second attempt before it begins. He pins them against the wall above my head in one effortless motion, his hold unyielding but not cruel, the pressure just firm enough to make his point without causing pain.
My pulse thunders beneath his fingers, betraying every emotion I'm trying to hide. Fear and fury, and a pull I refuse to acknowledge even in the privacy of my own thoughts.
I should scream. I should claw and fight until someone hears and help arrives, breaking this terrible tension building between us like a thunderstorm waiting to unleash. My voice should be echoing through this cabin, bringing whoever else might be here running to investigate.
But the sound dies in my throat because his eyes have caught me, tethering me in place with the sheer intensity of his stare.Gold and green swirl together, burning with emotions as his face hovers inches from mine. I can see the darker ring around his irises, and the way his pupils flare as his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Let me go.” My voice cracks, breathless and weak, even as I dig my nails against his hand. The demand sounds more like a plea, stripped of the fire I intended, exposing a vulnerability I hate in my own voice.
He doesn't respond or acknowledge my words at all. Instead, his mouth crashes onto mine.
The kiss isn't gentle. It isn't careful or tentative or any of the things a first kiss should be. It's searing and brutal, filled with anger, suspicion, and need tangled together so tightly I can't pull them apart. His lips devour mine with demanding intensity, punishing me for every protest I've made, and silencing every accusation with the taste of him.
Fire surges through my veins, fierce and unrelenting, pooling low in my stomach and racing outward until every nerve ending burns with awareness. My wrists strain against his hold, but the movement is no longer about escape. It’s about wanting to pull him closer and give in to the wildness that’s been burning inside me since the first time he walked into my café.
