All of it. The man with the tattoos and Russian accent coming into my store, cornering me in the back room, apologizing as he confirmed I was a target because of my mother.
A dream. A nightmare. Not real.
Then I reached down and felt an unfamiliar texture beneath my fingers. Not my bed. The mattress was wrong—too firm, the surface slick and cool.
I wasn't in my apartment above the music store at all.
Slowly, I closed my eyes and then opened them again, like the scene around me would change and I'd be back in my bed.
I didn't move.
It wasn't my soft cotton sheets beneath my fingertips, but the cool, smooth leather of a couch—expensive, buttery-soft, the kind that cost more than three months' rent.
It wasn't the scent of my favorite candle and wood polish that filled my lungs. Instead, faint whiffs of a man's cologne lingered in the air.
My pulse quickened, and it became harder to breathe as I stilled, listening for anything, anyone.
There was a low hum of city traffic in the distance but that was it.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Just the whisper of my own shallow breathing.
The room slowly came into focus.
Floor-to-ceiling windows with blackout curtains in a deep charcoal gray that pooled on the floor like spilled ink. Dim, gold-tinted afternoon sunlight glowed from the top edge where the curtains didn't quite meet the ceiling. A modern fireplace flickered behind frosted glass, throwing a warm light across the sleek cream walls and the black glass coffee table, positioned in the center of a lush black rug that looked like it had never been walked on.
The room was clearly luxurious, but impersonal.
Modern and sleek, yet unisex. Cold. Unfeeling.
A hotel suite.
No other explanation existed—no personal touches, no lived-in feel, no photographs or clutter or anything that suggested someone actuallylivedhere.
It was aesthetically perfect with its minimalist design and every detail whispering wealth. Black fixtures, crystal decanters on the bar cart, and art that looked deliberately expensive but altogether void of emotion. Abstract splashes of color that meant nothing.
The man—the Russian man who came into my store—hadn't been a dream.
He had caged me against the shelf, his body heat searing through my clothes, and then somehow knocked me out and kidnapped me.
How long have I been out?
I glanced down at my wrists, and then my ankles, checking for restraints—zip ties, rope, handcuffs, anything. Nothing. I wasn't tied up or bound in any way. Either he knew I couldn't escape, or he had underestimated how long I would be unconscious.
Either way, I needed to go.
Now.
Slowly, I rolled off the couch, my muscles protesting, stiff and achy. I crouched down next to it, making myself small, and tried to creep toward the door at the far end near the bar.
My bare feet were silent on the plush rug—when did I lose my shoes?—but my breath sounded too loud in the quiet room.
"And where do you think you're going,maya soloveyka?"
The deep, seductive masculine voice cut through the silence and I froze.
