Natalie awakened with a start. She was in the moment where dreams collide with reality at the intersection of consciousness and unconsciousness, where memories linger only to be blown away, the end of one and beginning of the other, the flash where connections blur and lines fade away.

Cold and damp.

So cold.

She huddled closer, tighter within herself, her knees at her chest as she hugged her arms nearer. Heat was the element she craved, yet her body was without it.

Every muscle ached as if she'd been maintaining this position for too long. It wasn't only her arms and legs that hurt; her stomach also cried out. Its need wasn't for warmth but for food. Audible grumblings of hunger echoed off the empty walls.

Where was she and why was she cold and hungry?

Blindly she reached for a blanket, a sheet, anything. Her cool fingertips met a scratchy surface.

Crash! The sound of reality and dreams smashing together.

Natalie's eyes squeezed tighter, and she buried her face into her knees, trying to escape the memories materializing behind her closed lids. If she didn't look—didn't see—perhaps nothing would be real. Yet in her heart and soul, she knew that she hadn't dreamt it or even had a nightmare. The deep ache in her bruised thigh confirmed the reality—flashes of recollections on the plane, in the car, and in a room—that she'd lived it.

Her eyes sprang open as she quickly scooted to a sitting position. Her knees still pressed against her breasts, and her arms now hugged her legs. As she moved, the rough bedding scratched the soft skin of her behind. Despite the uncomfortable surface, she continued until her back collided with something hard. Behind her, at the side of the bed where she'd slept, was a cold painted concrete wall. Like the mattress where she'd lain, its coarse texture abraded her skin.

Her skin.

Natalie ran her palm over her bare legs, one and then the other. Goose bumps peppered her body, not only her legs but her arms and torso too. Her nipples beaded as small hairs stood to attention. Everything—all of her skin, all of her body—was exposed. Her clothes were gone.

Her teeth chattered and body trembled as she unsuccessfully fought the urge to cry. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be real.

As occurs in dim light, her eyes adjusted, allowing the prison around her to materialize.

There wasn't much to see.

The same dull white walls, four of them, created a box—perhaps more of a rectangle than a square. The ceiling was high and painted the same white as the walls, devoid of color. She searched for a light or even a bare bulb. The dim illumination that allowed her to see didn't come from electricity but from a narrow strip of glass high upon one wall. It was a window, but not one that would open. Even if it did, it was too high to reach and too small for her to fit through. As she stared, the distortions in the panes caught her attention. The glass was reinforced and leaded, the kind of window found in renovated ancient castles to keep invaders out or prisoners in.

The only interruptions in the sameness of the walls were two doorways. One was covered with a solid wooden door, closed and painted to match the monotony of the room. She didn't need to check to see if it were locked. The absence of a handle told her that it only opened from the other side. The other doorway appeared open, simply a frame with no door.

A quick flash.

She blinked.

Had she imagined it? She scanned each surface, searching for its source.

Again.

It didn't last longer than a millisecond.

Like the walls, the tiny flash was devoid of color, so quick and insignificant that if she blinked at the same second, she would have missed it. Shivering upon the makeshift bed, she waited and counted.

Twenty-two seconds.

If the room were brighter, she wouldn't have noticed it. Nevertheless, she did.

She counted again.

Twenty-two seconds later, it flashed again.

The flash came from a small knob fitted snuggly into the window sill. Well disguised, it could pass for a blemish in the trim. However, imperfections didn't flash. It was a camera and meant that she was being watched.

Another person may not have known, but Natalie grew up with surveillance as part of her life. It hadn't bothered her before. Then again, before, she'd been clothed.

It was too late to pretend she wasn’t awake. Now that she was sitting up, whomever was watching already knew the truth. Her empty stomach twisted. Not whomever—Dexter. The man on the plane, in the car, and in this room. The man who undoubtedly stripped her of her clothes. The monster who stole her life. He would know that she was now awake. How long had she been asleep? Would he be coming to her? Was he asleep? What time was it?

Did she dare look in the other room?

Again, her stomach complained.

She clawed at the bed in the dimness, hoping for a blanket, sheet, or even the mattress covering, something in which to wrap her body. But there was nothing, only a metal cot with a single scratchy mattress.

Turning from the window—from the camera—Natalie used her arms and hands to cover her breasts and core. It wasn't much, as she hurried toward the open doorway. The concrete floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she rushed forward.

Once within, she fumbled along the wall for a switch and in the air for a string. Nat found none. This room was darker with no window, only the dim light trickling in from the room with the bed.

As her eyes continued to adapt, the second room came into focus: a simple yet efficient bathroom. Everything was white, reflecting light and helping her see. Straight ahead upon a pedestal was a sink, to one side, a toilet, and to the other side, an old iron clawfoot tub. Above the tub, mounted on the wall, was a showerhead. Reaching in the darkness, she searched for a curtain, one to contain the shower's spray.

Rings rattled upon a track, higher than her head, but the curtain was gone. Natalie sunk to her knees and crawled about the cold floor, searching for towels, a robe, or anything. Back on her feet, her hands splayed over the walls. An empty towel bar beside the toilet and an empty hook near the doorway were all she found.

Thankfully, there was toilet paper, but it would take the entire roll to cover her, and then what if he wouldn't replace it?

How could she even rationalize his thoughts? These were the doings of a deranged madman. She wasn't crazy. He was.

Again, her stomach grumbled.

Did he plan on starving her?

Natalie reached for the handle on the sink. Air and moisture sputtered, and then water began flowing. Using her hands, she cupped the cold liquid and brought it to her lips. The stench of sulfur filled her nose, worse than the musty aroma of her cement cell. Without drinking, she opened her hands and allowed the water to splash into the sink and disappear down the drain.

Perhaps at least, she could make it warm. That would help.

There were two handles. Natalie turned the handle on the left of the faucet as far as it would turn. As she waited for the temperature to change, she took care of other business. Her hand stilled as she began to wipe.

Had he touched her...there? Obviously, he'd taken her clothes off. Had he raped her?

Memories were fuzzy at best. She recalled floating or being carried. Though she was cold—chilled to the bone—and her muscles ached from trying to keep herself warm—too long rigid and contracted—she didn't feel injured or sullied beyond her nakedness.

When she'd boarded the plane to Munich, Natalie Rawlings had been a virgin. Surely, she'd know if she weren't any longer.

Forgetting about the camera, she carried the toilet paper into the light and sighed. There was no blood. She'd heard there would be blood.

Natalie wasn't completely without sexual knowledge. She'd dated boys in Iowa. They'd kissed and petted, but even with the biggest football star, she had a figurative wall around her, protecting her from going too far. No one dared be the boy to look her father in the eye after taking her virginity.

At Harvard, it was different, yet the same. Though Anthony Rawlings’s reputation held no boundaries, it was Natalie who didn't want to cross that line. It was she who didn't want to face not only her father but also her mother, not until the man who earned her hymen was also the one who earned her heart.

Some would consider it old-fashioned.

Maybe it was seeing her parents' devotion to one another. She wanted what they had. They'd overcome more obstacles than she even knew, and through it all, they loved one another unconditionally. They had the kind of love that survived life's trials and came out stronger.

Tears returned. Will she ever see her parents again? Can their marriage survive the tragedy of losing their daughter? Did they even know she was missing?

The ache in her chest grew larger, bubbling out with an audible sob.

Throwing the toilet paper in the water, she grabbed another piece and wiped her eyes. As it all swirled in the darkness and disappeared down the drain, she straightened her neck. She would survive this ordeal. Somehow, some way, she'd make it back to them.

Reaching for the running water, she expected heat. The reality was barely a few degrees above ice, reawakening her chill. Beside the handle was a small bar of soap. As she washed her hands, she turned off the one handle and tried the other.

A buzz or whistle sounded—shrill yet short. Had it come from the pipes? Natalie tried to listen, to hear it again. Like the light of the camera, would it recur?

With each passing second, the sound stayed away; only her beating heart thumped in her ears. However, to her delight, the water warmed. To her cooled skin, the liquid heat was heaven. On any other day, in any other place, combined with the stench, this water would be unacceptable. Today, in this hell, the slight rise in temperature was the best thing she'd found. Forgetting everything else, she stood still, allowing the warmth to run through her fingers and return her circulation. As her hands warmed, she splashed some on her face. Even though she couldn't dry it, the water took away something—cleansed her as well as restored something, bringing her back a small sense of normalcy.

When the warmth began to fade and she turned off the faucet, a shadow passed over her, chilling her skin. Was it simply a figurative cold to the loss of her warmed water? Had she imagined it?

Though there was no mirror above the sink—only more wall, the same as the rest—she lifted her face. Even without the reflection, Natalie knew. Standing taller, she braced herself as the hairs on her bare skin came to attention like small soldiers ready to fight.

What she'd endured so far was only the prelude. The battle was about to begin.

“Turn around, bug. We have rules to discuss.”