"What trade?" I whisper, though I think I already know. I think I’ve always known my father would sell me if the price was right.
"You," he says. The word is a hammer blow. "He sold you, Ivy. To the Russians. To work off his debt on your back."
The room spins. Black spots dance in my vision. "No. No, he wouldn't. He loves me. He’s sick, but he loves me."
"He loves himself," the stranger corrects me, his voice devoid of pity. "He loves the bottle and the cards more than he ever loved you. He was going to let them take you to Dubai. To turn you into a whore."
A sob rips itself from my throat. My legs give out, but his body holds me up, pressing me against the wall.
"But don't worry," he continues, his thumb stroking my cheek, wiping away a tear. "I didn't let them have you."
"You... you saved me?" I look up at him, searching for a glimmer of kindness in those cold, blue eyes.
"Saved?" He chuckles darkly. "No. I outbid them."
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. "I bought the debt, Ivy. I boughtyou."
I shove at his chest, panic exploding in my chest like a grenade. "No! You can't buy a person! This isn't—this is insane! I’m calling the police!"
I try to duck under his arm, but he catches me easily. He spins me around, pressing my back against his chest, crossing his arms over mine, effectively turning into a human straightjacket.
"The police work for me," he whispers into my hair. "Everyone works for me. There is no one coming to help you, Ivy. Your father is gone. Your lease is terminated. Your life, as you know it, ended the moment I walked through that door."
"Let me go!" I scream, thrashing against him. I kick back, my heel connecting with his shin.
He doesn't even flinch. He just tightens his grip, squeezing the air out of me until I’m gasping.
"Fight me," he growls, and I hear the arousal in his voice. "God, I love it when you fight. It makes the breaking so much sweeter."
He lifts me off the ground effortlessly. My feet dangle uselessly in the air.
"Where are you taking me?" I cry, hysteria clawing at my throat.
"Home," he says.
He walks toward the door, carrying me like I weigh nothing.
"My things!" I protest weakly, looking back at my tiny, pathetic apartment. My sketchbook. My mother’s photo on the nightstand. "I need my things!"
"You need nothing," he says, stepping into the hallway. "I will give you everything you need."
He kicks the door shut behind us.
The hallway is empty. Down the stairs, I can hear the faint sound of an engine idling.
I stop fighting. Not because I want to, but because the shock is finally overwhelming my system. My body goes limp in his arms. I rest my head against the wool of his coat, listening to the steady, powerful beat of his heart.
It’s a slow rhythm. Calm. Unbothered by the fact that he’s kidnapping a woman in the middle of the night.
He smells like blood and safety. The contradiction makes me want to vomit. It makes me want to burrow closer.
We reach the bottom of the stairs. The cold night air hits my face as he pushes open the front door.
A massive black car is waiting at the curb. A man in a suit is holding the back door open. He doesn't look surprised to see his boss carrying a girl in pajamas. He just nods.
"Welcome home, Miss Ross," the driver says.
Silas deposits me into the backseat. The leather is soft, heated. It smells like him.
