At the staircase, I gesture for her to go ahead of me. She pauses, uncertainty flashing across her face before she starts climbing, her movements stiff with tension. The stairs give me the perfect vantage point to appreciate the curve of her ass in those worn jeans.
Even exhausted and terrified, she moves with an unconscious sensuality that makes my mouth go dry.
“Second door on the right,” I instruct when we reach the landing.
She follows my directions, pushing open the door to reveal the guest room I’ve had prepared. It’s spacious but sparse.
The adjoining bathroom door stands partially open, revealing gleaming tile and glass. The walls are a cool gray, unadorned except for a single abstract painting that adds a splash of blue. No personality, no warmth. Just like my business transactions.
“You can put the cat down,” I say, placing his supplies on the floor near the dresser. “This is where you’ll be staying. At least for now.”
Alina finally loosens her grip on Onyx, setting him gently on the bed. The cat immediately begins exploring, limping slightly as he investigates the unfamiliar territory. She watches him withnaked concern, even uselessly reaching for him when he loses his balance for a moment.
Clearing my throat, I continue. “The bathroom is through there.” I nod toward the partially open door. “There are towels in the cabinet and probably a few basic toiletries as well. The dresser is empty. Not that you have much to put in it. And there are extra blankets in the closet if you get cold.”
Her hand drifts to the teddy bear she’s still clutching. It almost looks like she’s… I don’t know. Padding it down or feeling for something?
“Do you want something to eat?” I’m not sure why I even bother offering since I’m not her fucking host. If anything, I’m her captor.
She shakes her head as she sits down on the edge of the mattress next to her cat, who’s now perched there. Then she speaks for the first time since entering my home. “I’m not hungry.” Her voice is soft but steady, surprising me.
I study her for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched into every line of her body, the way she stretches her legs and rolls her ankles as if her feet hurt. The faint smudges of flour still visible on her arms tell the story of a long day at the bakery before I collected her. Despite everything, she has a quiet dignity that’s hard not to admire.
The small handbag hanging from her wrist catches my eye. I didn’t see her pack that one, but I’m pretty sure her phone’s in there. I close the distance and reach for it. She reacts immediately, leaning back to avoid me.
It’s too much, too fast. Her balance slips, and she topples backward onto the mattress, the cat darting out of the way. I step forward before she can recover, planting myself between her legs as she half-sits, half-lies there.
“D-don’t come any c-closer,” she stutters.
Instead of answering, I take another step. This sends her scrambling backward up the mattress, palms dragging against the sheets, breath coming shallow and uneven. The more she retreats, the more space she gives me to enter.
The headboard meets her shoulders. “Nowhere left to go now,” I growl.
I brace a knee on the mattress and lean over her—not touching—just close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. My shadow falls over her.
She goes completely still. Even her breathing falters, like she’s afraid the sound of it will provoke me. “P-please don’t hurt me,” she begs, her voice weak as she curls in on herself as if trying to make herself smaller.
I pause, something uncomfortable slithering through my gut at her response. I’m many things—violent when necessary, ruthless when crossed—but I don’t hit women and I certainly don’t force myself on them.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say, moderating my tone. “But I need to check what you’re bringing into my home.”
Her breath stutters. “It’s just some money and my ID.” She swallows thickly. “Nothing that would interest you.”
I resist the urge to laugh at that assessment. She’s saying that her money isn’t of interest to me. The fucking Debt Collector. The irony is too much.
I reach for the strap around her wrist, slow on purpose. My fingers brush her skin. She flinches, but she doesn’t fight. “Relax,” I say as I take it from her.
I study her for a moment, noting the pallor beneath her freckles and the exhaustion dragging at the corners of her eyes.
Her wide eyes track me as I retreat, restoring distance between us.
The small purse weighs almost nothing. I open it, finding exactly what she claimed; her ID, about sixty dollars in cash that I leave alone, and, as I suspected, her phone.
“You won’t be needing this,” I say, pocketing the device. “No communication with the outside world unless I approve it.”
“What happens now?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. The teddy bear is crushed against her chest, her knuckles white around its worn body.
Fuck me, the way her eyes continue to widen and her grasping the bear like that makes her look like a girl instead of a woman. She might only be twenty-three, but the way she’s infantilizing herself is ridiculous.
