I reach for that warmth in my chest, that thread connecting us, but it’s faint now. Stretched thin by distance. I can barely feel him, and the absence makes me want to scream.
When the hood is lifted from my head, I blink against the sudden light and stare through the car window at the cabin that stands deep in the forest like something from a nightmare. It’s nothing like Kozlov’s usual taste for luxury, just weathered logs and a sagging porch, and windows as dark as dead eyes. The structure looks abandoned. Forgotten.
Like something out of a horror movie. The kind of place deep in the woods where nobody would hear you scream.
We’re so far from civilization that the air itself feels different. Thinner. Colder. Each breath burns my lungs.
“Out.” One of the guards opens my door and hauls me from the back seat, his grip bruising on my arm.
My legs barely hold me as I’m marched toward the porch. Every step feels like walking toward my own execution. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Whatever happens inside that cabin, the Emma who walks out, if she gets out at all, won’t be the same person that went in.
The interior is dimly lit, smells musty, and furnished with the bare minimum. A threadbare couch. A scarred wooden table. The windows are so grimy they barely let in light. Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of a narrow bed and a dresser. A small, functional bathroom lay beyond that.
Kozlov is already inside, speaking in low tones with two people I recognize. A man and a woman, both dressed far too elegantly for this rustic hellhole.
The Ashworths. Two people I prayed I’d never meet again.
They turn to look at me, and the hunger in his eyes makes my stomach lurch.
“Oh, she’s just as perfect as I remember.” His voice is cultured, refined, and completely at odds with what I know he’s here to do. “Even better than before.”
The woman’s gaze is clinical as it travels over me. Assessing. I don’t think she agrees with her husband, but she’s clever enough not to comment. “Did you bring everything I requested?”
“Of course, Mrs. Ashworth.” Kozlov gestures to one of the guards, who produces a garment bag. “The dress, the cosmetics. Everything on your list.”
As though Kozlov is her concierge rather than a dangerous criminal, Mrs. Ashworth takes the bag without acknowledginghim and unzips it, revealing a slash of red silk. She holds it up, examining it in the dim light, then looks at me with something that might be satisfaction.
“White would be too… obvious,” she says, as if explaining her choice to a slow child. “And red won’t show any... stains.”
The easy way she says it makes me shudder.
Turning to her husband, she smiles wickedly. “I thought you’d like how at odds it is. This innocent thing in a crimson dress. A beauty trapped in this ugly place.”
Not so innocent any more, I think smugly.
Maybe I’m never getting out of here, but they’re not leaving with what they came for.
“Make yourself presentable. Shower. Hair down. Makeup should be subtle but pretty. My husband prefers a natural look.” Mrs. Ashworth hands me the garment bag. “If you mess it up on purpose, my husband will enjoy teaching you some manners, virgin or not. Believe me, while I might enjoy that, you won’t.”
Her grin widens at my horrified expression. She’s torturing me on purpose, revelling in amplifying my distress, as if it’s my fault her husband is a sick fuck.
I want to spit in her face. I want to claw at those cold, soulless eyes and scream that I’m a person, not some doll to be abused for her husband’s pleasure, but the guards are watching, and they have guns. And there’s nowhere to run even if I could get past them.
So, fingers rolling over the tiny device stashed in my pocket, I take the dress and allow myself to be led to the bedroom.
The room is as dilapidated as the rest of the cabin, just a narrow bed, a dresser, and a window that looks out into endless forest. Outside, a thin branch sways in the wind, tapping the dirty glass like a warning. On the dresser, there’s a small makeup bag along with a mirror and a curling iron. Mrs. Ashworth thinks of everything, apparently, except basic human decency.
In the tiny, attached bathroom, the shower runs lukewarm, but I can’t stop shivering. Through the thin walls, I hear their voices. Kozlov talking business with the Ashworths, furniture scraping across the floor, and something that sounds like equipment being assembled.
The sounds make my stomach churn with dread, but I force myself to take my time. Washing my hair twice, brushing it carefully. Every minute I can stall is another minute before I have to face whatever’s waiting for me.
And maybe, God, please, every minute is another chance for Bodhi to find me.
I beg him, through whatever this connection is between us, to come for me. For a moment, I feel nothing but cold emptiness, and panic claws at my throat. He might not even know I’m gone yet.
Then, faint, so faint I might be imagining it, a flicker of warmth.
Distant. Moving.
