Page 2 of Brutal Captivity

We both jump when we hear footsteps come from the hallway on the other side of the leisure room. Somewhere deep in the house. Please be a security guard. Please be a security guard. I pray to no god in particular. The footsteps get closer, each one measured and sure.

I grab Nico’s arm, pulling him down into a crouching position behind the kitchen island. “What do we do?” I whisper, feeling completely out of my element. Not even in my worst nightmares has something like this happened.

“Look for a knife,” Nico whispers.

“You know I abhor violence,” I respond, completely taken aback by the suggestion.

“We can’t just hide here. We’re sitting ducks. Do you have a better idea?” he asks. I huff and do as he instructs. As quietly as I can, I start opening drawers on the island, desperately searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nico opens more drawers, helping me search.

We both freeze when the lights flicker again. This time, they go off and stay off. We are plunged into darkness, the only light coming from bright moonlight filtering through the kitchen window. With the lights went the sound. The silence presses down on me until everything else becomes deafening. My heart thuds in my chest. Blood rushes through my veins. A bead of sweat glides down my neck. The generator should kick on at any moment. I hold my breath and wait… and wait… and wait….

Nothing. No whir of the generator. No lights coming back to life. In the silence, all I can focus on are the footsteps as they get closer. No thud. No scrape. Just quiet, measured steps. As if the person is taking a leisurely stroll and not echoing off the walls of my fear.

They are almost in the kitchen now. They pause for a second. I strain my ears. What are they doing? Why did they pause? Maybe they will go around us completely. Maybe they will leave.

The footsteps start up again. They come closer. And closer. My eyes prick with tears. I hold my breath. I need to make as little sound as possible.

“I’ve been trying to call the police, but my phone isn’t working.” Nico’s voice is so low, I barely hear him. I look at his phone screen, the “no signal” icon clear as day in the dark.

They’re in the kitchen now. My heart beats frantically in my chest and my hands shake as I open one drawer after another, feeling around blindly, finding spoons and spatulas and even mixing bowls. I can’t incapacitate this intruder with a mixing bowl. What am I going to do, whip him into a meringue?

A sudden click cuts through the air, so I swallow my fear and turn around. Shrouded in darkness is a man with a gun trained on Nico’s temple. Nico is frozen, the phone still in his hand.

“Callisto Santos. You aren’t supposed to be here,” comes a raspy voice to my right. How does he know my name? And what does he mean? Something hardand cold presses against my temple. My heart and my stomach leap in opposite directions. My heart is in my throat, beating so rapidly it feels as though I may choke. My stomach, on the other hand, falls through the floor, seeking the safety of the earth below.

“It’s my house. You’re not supposed to be here,” I say before I can think better of it. His responding laugh is rich and gravelly, as if it is pulled from the earth instead of his lips.

“Oh… you’re a feisty one,” he responds, and I can still hear the humor in his voice. That makes my hackles rise. Feisty? Feisty? That’s how one would describe a cat, not a grown man who is being held at gunpoint.

Despite the cold barrel of a gun against my temple, I slowly turn, and my eyes trace up the silver metal of the gun pressed against my head. The hand holding the weapon is encased in black leather, steady as stone. He wears a tactical mask with cutouts for his eyes and mouth. His eyes catch the moonlight; they are the same color as the gun he has held to my head.

I look up at him from my knees on the floor. From my angle, he doesn't just look tall; he looks like a mountain. Looming and daunting as it watches the city below. His body presses into mine, strong thighs forcing me against the kitchen base cabinets. I swallow. This man doesn’t need a gun. He could break me in half with his bare hands.

His large black boots step even closer to me, the toe nudging my knee, but I have nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to hide. His large, muscled chest rises and falls evenly with every breath. He holds the gun steadily, an effortless extension of his arm.

“Well… looks like we have a change in plans,” he smiles down at me, like I’m a problem he already solved.

two

“You’re the one on your knees… Princess.”- Leo

Early Tuesday Morning….

“What’sthemove,boss?”Daron asks, his gun still trained on the personal assistant’s head. I consider our options. We can either kill them, and it can be a robbery gone wrong, leave them, but they probably know too much now, or take them with us, and ransom them.

“We take them,” I say after a few moments of deliberating.

“What?” Callisto says, the word coming out as more of a hiss. I can’t decide if it’s panicked or offended or maybe a bit of both. Even in the low light, I can make out his features.

I’ve seen pictures, but they don't do him justice.

Too pretty. Too polished. Like he’s never had to bleed for anything.

I already fucking hate him.

“You sure?” Daron asks, looking between the two men.

“Don’t question me,” I say, not in the mood to be undermined by Daron. Sure, Daron is my best friend. For the longest time, he is the only friend I had, but he knows not to question my authority in front of witnesses.