S O R A

He throws me onto the bed and reaches into the nightstand. A pair of handcuffs appears in his hand, and he cuffs me to the bedframe. I fight with everything I have, but the truth is unavoidable—he's stronger than me.

"Bastard! I shouldn't have saved you," I spit angrily.

"Adrian Moretti, sweetheart."

I pause mid-struggle. His name—Adrian—rolls in my mind. He pins me down with his legs and weight. My shirt rides up my stomach as I struggle against him.

A new kind of fear gnaws at me. Is he really going to hurt me? Or worse—force himself on me? Right now, I have no leverage.

Adrian leans forward, and suddenly, we're face to face.

"Entertaining as your resistance is, I don't have the patience for it tonight, darling. Listen carefully—because if you don't, I'll put you somewhere this house never sees the sun."

His cold words settle around us like a heavy blanket. The truth hits me: there is no escape. I am his prisoner. This man is anything but ordinary. I've been around men like this long enough to know he's extremely dangerous.

I am his until he says I'm not.

For now, he isn't killing me or beating me. I should just go with the flow and see where this goes. At least, in this terrible turn of events, Adrian isn't hunting me down to kill me. For now, that is a small mercy.

Adrian must notice my resistance fading, because his taut posture relaxes. He gets off me, and I watch as he strips off his dress shirt. My gaze trails down his broad, muscular shoulders to his narrow waist. On his upper body, intertwined with the smoke are ice-like shards and blackened flames, representing a mind that is both cold and destructive—strategic yet merciless. Hidden in the shadows of his ink were subtle symbols of leaderships: a chess king, a serpent coiling around it. The tattoo didn't cover his entire body, but covered most of his upper body.

When he turns, I count his abdominal muscles—eight, sharp and defined. My eyes travel lower, following the deep V-line disappearing into his pants. I bite the inside of my cheek and force my gaze away. This man is dangerously sexy. Dark curls fall over his forehead, brushing thick eyebrows and a slightly crooked nose bridge. His lips—full, dark, and colors that remind of plum—catch my attention before I wrench my eyes elsewhere. Lips like that can make a woman wonder how they would feel.

I hear him walk away and look up just in time to see him disappear into the connecting bathroom.

Why is he using this bathroom? Is this his room? I huff and drop my head onto the pillow. Closing my eyes, my mind races—work, Jeff, the cops. What if they come back to question me again? Am I really going to drop everything? But then again—it's what I do best: drop everything and run.

After thirty minutes, Adrian steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He has a new bandage over his wound. I keep my gaze on him from beneath my lashes, every movement of his drawing me in, until he disappears behind what looks like a walk-in closet. My chest tightens, and I can't stop my mind from following him.

When he comes out, he is dressed in all black. The top three to four buttons unbuttoned. His tattoos creeping out from under his shirt. He walks over He steps closer and tugs lightly on the handcuff. He smells like men's body wash—clean, sharp, unsettling.

"I have an event to attend," he says calmly. "You're free—for now. Don't test how temporary that is."

He unlocks the cuffs, and my hands fall to the pillow above my head. I pull them close to my body and sit up.

"If you let me go—"

"Are we still talking about letting you go?" Adrian lifts an eyebrow, a clear warning.

"I'm just saying—you can't keep me here. I have a job. I have friends."

"You won't need to work for now."

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" My voice sharpens. "I don't even know you. We met by chance, and I saved you—that's it. If you let me go now, I won't tell anyone about you. I'll disappear. You'll never see me again."

His eyes turn cold. I swallow hard.

"Fine," I say quietly. "I won't go anywhere."

Adrian straightens.

"I'll have one of the maids bring you food," he says. "If you try to leave, you won't make it out alive. My guards will kill you before you reach the gate."

I close my eyes and draw in a shaky breath.

"So no matter what," I murmur, "I'm going to die."

He doesn't answer. He turns and walks out.

The moment he's gone, I stand and scan the bedroom. When he took me last night, he brought nothing of mine. No phone. No purse. The old one—with twenty dollars inside—is still back in my apartment.

I have nothing.

There has to be a phone somewhere. I search for several minutes, coming up empty-handed. Finally, I collapse onto the bed and sigh in defeat.

The bedroom door opens, and a maid steps inside. She looks to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties. She approaches and sets a tray of food in front of me. My stomach growls at the sight of it—I can't remember the last time I ate this well.

"W-what's your name?" I ask.

"Giana."

"Thank you, Giana."

I cut into the already sliced steak and bring it to my mouth. The rich, savory flavor floods my senses, and I can't stop a small sound from escaping. I devour the steak, the steamed vegetables, even the dessert, then gulp down the water.

At this point, Adrian could poison me and I'd die happy.

Giana watches quietly. Heat creeps into my face. I push the tray toward her.

"Thank you. Really."

She smiles. "You're welcome, miss."

"Please—call me Sora." I hesitate, then step closer. "Giana... I need to call into work. Do you have a phone I could use?"

She shakes her head. Still, I press on.

"Please. I don't want to be here. You have to help me." My voice drops. "Do you have a daughter? What would you do if she were taken?"

"I—I can't," she says softly, already backing away. "I'm sorry."

I reach out and grab her arm to stop her.

"Please," I whisper. "You have to help me."

She doesn't help me. Instead, she turns and walks away.

I sink back onto the edge of the bed, then crawl toward the middle and finally break. It's been a long time since I've cried.

I run. I fight. I hide.
But crying?

I never have time for it.

This time is different. I cry because I'm exhausted—because I have nothing left to hold it back. Once the tears start, they don't stop. Everything I've buried comes rushing forward, and the sobs tear out of me until my chest aches.

I cry myself to sleep.

When I wake up, the room is pitch black. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and walk to the bathroom. The mirror stops me short—dark circles hang heavy beneath my eyes, swollen nearly shut.

I turn on the cold water and splash my face, again and again. When that doesn't help, I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as cold as it will go.

The shock steals my breath. My body shivers violently, but after a minute, the cold numbs everything—my skin, my thoughts, my fear.

After several minutes, I use Adrian's body wash and shampoo, scrubbing myself until I feel clean again. When I step out, I find folded towels beneath the sink. I grab one, dry off, and wrap it around myself.

I walk back into the bedroom and then into the walk‑in closet.

It's full of Adrian's clothes. Only his.

At this point, I don't care. If he's going to lock me in this room, I'm going to use what's here. If he has a problem with it, he can move me—or let me go.

I pull on one of his black T‑shirts. I see his other clothes and immediately look away, unsettled. I consider his sweats or shorts but decide against it. I stand there longer than I realize, searching for something—anything—that feels acceptable.

The door suddenly whips open.

I scream just as Adrian's frame fills the doorway.

"What the fuck?" I shout.

"What are you doing?" he growls.

"Finding something to wear."

His eyes drift over me, and suddenly I'm painfully aware of how short his black T‑shirt is on me, ending just above mid-thigh. I tug at the hem, trying to cover myself. I catch the way his gaze lingers briefly at my chest, and I hope it doesn't show too much under the fabric.

"I need clothes."

"I forgot you need clothes," he replies, his voice flat.

He steps into the closet, and a faint scent of alcohol hits me. I take a careful step back. He's been drinking.

Adrian moves closer, reaching above me, and pulls down a pair of sleeping pants.

"I haven't worn these yet," he says.

I nod, taking them quickly from him and sliding them on. When he steps out, I follow, leaving the closet behind. My body still prickling from the close proximity. He doesn't speak, doesn't glance back. The air between us feels thick—charged.

A few minutes later, there's a soft knock at the bedroom door.

"Come in," Adrian calls without turning.

The door opens, and Giana steps in, carrying a tray with what I would assume is my dinner. She sets it down gently on the nightstand.

"Your food, miss," she says, her voice cautious, almost afraid.

I sit on the edge of the bed and eyed the food—some kind of Italian pasta dish and bread. My stomach growls loudly and I glance at Adrian from beneath my lashes. He sat in a white sofa opposite me with his arms crossed. If he heard my stomach growling, he didn't say a word.

"Eat," he says. His tone is clipped, commanding, but there's a subtle undercurrent of...something else. Amusement, maybe.

I pick up a fork and take a bite. The food is satisfying and delicious. I chew slowly, trying not to look desperate. Adrian doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He just stands there, his gaze like steel.

"Do you always watch people eat?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"I like to see how you are when you behave," he replies. His lips twitch into a smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Giana hovers for a moment, waiting for him to dismiss her. He nods once, and she retreats quietly, leaving us alone again.