“If you break my window, I’m going to be very angry,” he calmly says, shifting gears and leading us out of the cul-de-sac.
I drop my hands, but I keep staring out the window. I know once we get closer to downtown I’ll be able to get someone’s attention. It’s Friday night and bound to be busy. Someone will see me and call the police. My escape plan falls to pieces when he takes a left to get on the highway that leads us out of the city and then guns the car so we’re speeding by everyone so quickly that no one has a chance to notice the bound and gagged woman in the passenger seat.
It’s hard to tell if his laughter as he shifts gears and picks up even more speed is from my botched plan or the thrill of driving this beautiful car. Probably a mixture of both. We speed down the road, passing every car we come to. He handles the Camaro perfectly. No one can fault his driving. He seems to be proficient in all sorts of things—killing, kicking down doors, excellent hide-and-seek player, binding, gagging, and driving.
I try to piece everything together, but my brain is still high on adrenaline, making it nearly impossible to focus. I look over at him, noticing the tattoos on his neck that the ski mask had kept hidden. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but I’m guessing underneath are a lot more tattoos. I sort out the pieces in my frazzled head. Shit ton of tattoos, scary as fuck, Eastern European accent, the earlier conversation Scott and his friends had—I sit up straighter with the realization. I’ve just been taken by the goddamn Medvedev Bratva.
The man’s eyes meet mine for the briefest of looks before putting his focus back on the road. I watch the scenery fly by, perking up when he starts to slow down. He pulls in front of a private gate, stopping to wave at the man out front. I let out a muffled yell and hold my bound hands up. My kidnapper says something in what must be Russian and both men share a good laugh as the gate swings open. The guard’s still laughing when he gives me a nod as we drive past him and up to the gorgeous house. He parks in a large garage next to a black motorcycle, and when I reach for the door handle his voice stops me.
“Don’t get out.”
I shoot him a confused look, but then I see three large, dark forms come bounding to us. They’re massive, the biggest fucking dogs I’ve ever seen, and they sure as hell don’t look friendly.
“I’ll come get you.”
I give a small nod, but I can’t look away from the dogs. I’ve never been scared of animals, but that doesn’t mean I’d be willing to stick my hand in a tiger’s cage. The dogs are each a different color. One is pure black, one is grey, and the one that’s currently standing right next to my window staring at me is brindle. When they see my kidnapper, they run to him with pure excitement written all over their bodies. Their tails wag a mile a minute, their front paws do a happy, tapping dance on the garage floor, and when he reaches down to pet them, I can see that he’s just as smitten with them as they are of him. Seems my captor has a heart after all, and it belongs to his killer dogs. How fitting.
Once the cuddles have been dished out, he says something to them in Russian, making them back away from the car. He opens the door, but I don’t move.
“It’s safe,” he says, but I shake my head and let out a muffled “mm-mmm,” because no way in fuck am I getting out of this car. He squats down so we’re eye level. “Get out of the car.”
I look over at the three sets of eyes that are still hyperfocused on me. I’m not ashamed to admit that each one of those dogs has way more muscle than I do. I wouldn’t last a second with one of them, let alone three. I shake my head again, refusing to budge.
“Have it your way,” he says, reaching in and picking me up with an ease that’s terrifying. He doesn’t even do that annoying grunt that Derek used to always give when he’d pick me up. It’s like I weigh nothing to this guy. “Try not to piss on me again.”
I know he hears the muffled “fuck you” I give him because he starts laughing as he carries me up to his front door. The dogs come in with us, staying right by their master’s side while he carries me through a surprisingly clean and comfy-looking house. I mean, the guy doesn’t have cutesy quotes on the walls or anything, but the furniture looks like it was picked out with comfort in mind instead of trying to impress. My eyes run over everything, taking in the flat-screen TV, the three large dog beds lined up before the gas fireplace, and the grey shag rug that covers the dark hardwood floors.
I try to resist leaning against him as much as possible, but with my hands still bound, it leaves me completely at his mercy. He’s carrying me bridal style, and I can feel the way his muscles are moving against my side. I don’t think he has an ounce of fat on him, and I have no idea how in the hell that’s even possible. Walking down a long hallway, he brings me into what has to be a spare room. It’s nice, but it doesn’t feel lived in. I let out a relieved breath when he sets me on a chair instead of on the bed. There’s an adorable window seat to my right, and if this were any other situation, I’d compliment him on his beautiful house.
He lets me go, and in one quick motion, rips the tape from my mouth, pulling a shocked yelp from me.
“Asshole!” I spit out before I can stop it.
He ignores me and turns to leave, not even bothering to turn around when he says, “If you do manage to escape, you won’t make it five feet before my dogs are on you.”
He shuts the door before I can say anything. His heavy footsteps get further away as he walks back down the hall. I run for the door, not at all surprised to find it locked. I bang on it, yelling at him to let me out. In a moment of pure stupidity, I rear back my foot and kick it as hard as I can, gasping at the shock of pain that radiates up my leg. God, he’d made it look so damn easy, but my fuzzy socks aren’t going to do shit to this sturdy door. Running to the window, I look out and groan when I see he’s let the dogs out and they’re sitting right outside. The outdoor lighting gives me a perfect view of them, sitting and waiting. They stare at me like they’re hoping the new chew toy will come out and play with them.
I don’t even get a chance to investigate the rest of the room before the door is thrown open and my kidnapper is back, looking more pissed off than usual. His phone is in his hand when he storms over, hauls my ass back into my chair and grabs another one, placing it directly in front of me. He sits down, thighs spread and broad shoulders taking up way too much space. He holds his phone up so I can see. A picture of a smiling Kaylee looks back at me, taunting me in ahaha you got kidnapped instead of meway that I don’t particularly care for. She’s been a thorn in my side ever since we hit high school and she convinced my boyfriend at the time to dump me and date her. I’ll never forget watching them make out in front of my locker, too stunned and hurt to do anything except run off and cry in the bathroom. I don’t have a great track record with boyfriends.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks me. “Because you’re sure as hell not Kaylee St. James.”
I stay quiet, debating what to do.
“Not speaking isn’t an option,” he tells me, his tone making it clear that I will be answering his questions. When I don’t immediately answer, he leans forward, invading my space and making my heart start to race. It’s just because I’m scared, I tell myself, and not because he’s sexy and scary in a good way and making me all hot and bothered. No, I mentally yell at myself. He’s scary in abadway, a very bad way.
“All I had to do was pin you to the wall and it was enough to make you piss yourself,kiska. You sure you want to stay silent?”
“What does that word mean?” I ask, breaking my silence, even if it isn’t to answer his question.
He gives me a very small smirk. “It means pussycat, because let’s face it, sweetheart, you’re no lion.”
I’m insulted, but he’s right. My inner badass never did make an appearance, and I think it’s safe to say that I’m not cut out for a dangerous life. “Fine,” I say, knowing there’s no point in putting this off any longer, “but I want your word that you won’t kill me and that I can make a phone call.”
He laughs and scrubs a hand over his jaw, I try not to notice the dried blood that still covers him. “I won’t kill you unless you give me no other choice.” He thinks for a second and adds, “I’ll consider a supervised call.”
“That’s a lot more vague than I’d like, but I have no choice but to take it, I guess. My name is Madison Montgomery, but everyone calls me Maddie, and I’m the maid.”
He mutters something in Russian, looking less than pleased with the mistake.
