Kidnapped. I was kidnapped.
The room is elegantly lovely in the morning, bright and airy, all delicate greys and white, and windows that look over woods. Despite everything, my anxiety notches down. At least I’m not tied up in a basement.
Or dead.
I shiver.
It’s a big room, with floor-to-ceiling windows and tones of the palest grey down to a deep charcoal for the furniture. It’s exactly as it was last night, including the door being locked.
Except a pop of colour stands out.
On a white sofa there’s a stack of clothes, and on the low table in front of it there’s a glass of orange juice, a big black mug, and a plate piled with pastries of the type I sometimes treat myself to when I’m feeling really down.
I approach warily. I’m sure there are rules and things about what to do when you’ve been kidnapped, and they include notaccepting food or drink in case it’s drugged or something. But I saw the man yesterday inject the guy he killed, and I feel moderately confident that if he wanted me unconscious, he’d have just stabbed me. Or hit me over the head.
Plus, I need coffee more than anything. Caffeine makes my world go round, and the mug looks like it has my favourite milky coffee in it.
I perch on the edge of the sofa—it’s far too pristine and white to slump into—and reach for the coffee. The mug is still hot, as though someone left it only minutes ago, and my eyes dart around the room, checking. Paranoia? Maybe. But I seem to be alone. Unless there are cameras?
It hardly seems worth worrying about given I was running for my life last night.
I bring the coffee to my lips a little hesitantly, part of me waiting to be told off. But the scent is heavenly—rich and smooth and a bit caramelly—and when I take a mouthful, I moan as feel-good floods my body. I really needed this.
Delicious coffee provided as though by magic? My lizard brain approves. A few more sips and I remember that I’ve been kidnapped. I’m in danger. I should investigate further.
I examine the neat pile of clothes. It has a silky top that’s remarkably similar to the one I was browsing online last month, a bra in exactly my correct size, plain but matching knickers, and a pair of cute shorts. They all have the vibe of being new, but I can’t be sure since there aren’t any tags.
Wherever they came from, it was really nice of someone to bring in clean clothes for me.
I pick up a pastry, and find it’s slightly warmed, the buttery smell wafting to me. It’s the perfect amount of flaky crunch and sweetness exploding on my tongue as I bite into it.
Who knew kidnappers provided such good food? I’ve been misled by all the bread crusts and water things. This is heaven.
I finish one pastry in greedy mouthfuls, then gulp down the life-giving nectar of the coffee and eye a second one. In the end, I decide against it, because my skin feels ick.
I lock the bathroom door, and consider the enormous bathtub with the view over a forest, but opt for the smart option of a shower. The tiles are little grey pebbles on the floor, and I’ve never been to an expensive hotel, but I bet this is what it feels like.
Minus the kidnap, and nervousness about what’s going to happen next.
But with the door locked—why didn’t I think of locking myself in the bathroom last night?—I feel secure.
The en-suite shower is large and luxurious. There are toiletries—the rose-scented shampoo and conditioner I like, and other things, which is a bit odd. A coincidence, I guess. I bought these on special offer last month, and perhaps whoever manages this house—I’m sure it’s not the masked man who kidnapped me, men aren’t like that—has similar preferences for bargains.
I dress in the clothes provided, because I work better in clean clothes and with a clear mind, and I’m feeling as good as it’s possible to be when you’re not confident you’re going to survive the day.
Escape is my priority, so a thorough search of my room is the next task.
Except when I step back into the bedroom, I stop dead. The man from last night is lounging on the sofa.
Wearing the mask.
He’s bigger than I remember. He’s in jeans and a grey T-shirt, and in the light of day I can see that there are a few flecks of silver in his black hair.
My kidnapper is gorgeous. Absolutely terrifying, but beautiful in a way that I’ve never thought any man could be. He has a criss-cross of tattoos in straight lines that remind me of theinsides of an electronic device that’s broken, and you can see all the component parts.
I have this sudden and stupid desire to see his face again. The square of his jaw, his grey eyes.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is the same as I remember from last night. Deep, and with a gravelly Russian accent.
