My heart is beating so fast, so loudly that I can feel every pulse like a shudder convulsing through my whole body, head to toe. I feel electrified. Electrocuted. And hypnotized. It’s a trance I have found myself enraptured inside before, but only when standing before the truly most sublime of natural landscapes or urban cityscapes.

It’s the way I feel when I stand at the base of some great marble statue or a memorial weighted down with the burden of soul after crushed soul. It’s the gravity of a thousand atmospheres, pressing down on me, turning me from a living bloom to a dried flower pressed and preserved between the crackling pages of some herbalist’s field diary. I am frozen. Riveted to the spot by the sight before me.

Only he is not a statue. I can see him moving, ever so slightly. His muscles tensing and clenching, his barrel chest rising and falling with every massive breath meant to buoy the strongest lungs a man has ever had. And he’s dressed to kill. He looks like he could have stumbled straight from the pages of a romance novel. But a tragic one. He’s not a Darcy. He is a Heathcliff, perhaps. Or a Humbert Humbert.

A sensation like a rivulet of icy water down my spine seizes me.

Does this make me Lolita?

I swallow hard, not daring to move a single muscle as the beast regards me, his precious prey. He looks at me with the shrewd, hawkish eyes of a man who overthinks everything and sees everything. He catches every detail, catalogues it away for future use. I can see the cogs moving in his skull behind those dark eyes. I can positively smell the smog of industry on him. He’s a man who works with his hands, but his mind is sharper than any instrument. I can sense that instantly. A kindred spirit, a deep thinker. A man who nurses a lot of dark fantasies. Does he live them out? Does he actualize the grim images fluttering like moths in the glowing illumination of his mind? Does he wring meaning out of the meaningless?

Is he more like me than the other captors?

He’s different from them. I can tell. Whereas my kidnappers up until now have seemed more like minions to some greater, hidden mastermind behind the velvet curtain, this man seems self-contained and self-assured. He works for no one but himself.

And whatever job he must have, it must pay really damn well. Because he is dressed in the luxurious brocades and furs and wools of the aristocracy, which is still alive and well and clearly defined in much of beautiful Russia. He looks like a character from a book I would devour in one day. He looks like a tragic hero. Perhaps an anti-hero. A lord or a rogue but not a prince.

Is he part-beast?

The hungry fire burning behind his penetrating gaze tells me I might be on the right track. He looks at me with a calmness, a matter-of-factness that speaks more to the food chain than to social graces. And yet, he doesn’t look like a brute. He’s an older man, probably at least thirty-five, probably older, just judging from the soft lines beginning to solidify in his face. A weathered map of places he has been, people he has seen, lives he has probably ruined. That much I feel pretty confident in—that he is a ruiner of lives. He’s the man at the turnstile, pulling the lever to unravel a life and send it careening off a cliff into the pits of darkness.

He’s not a monster, though.

No.

He’s far more elegant than that. His clothes are perfectly-fitted, which indicates he at least has the time, money, and patience to stand still and pay another person to tailor his clothes for him. He must stay in one place just long enough to do that, at the very least.

But he doesn’t look like a man with deep roots. He doesn’t look like he has a place to call home. I think he makes a home out of every room he enters. He owns every step he takes. He claims every breath of air with gusto, without hesitation. He deserves it all, and he knows it.

Oh yes. He is a far cry from the spineless gremlins who captured me in the first place. This man does not play jester to anyone. He’s the king.

And I can only imagine what he will do to me. Where do I fall on the tree of hierarchy? Which branch? Am I a lowly strip of bark or a blooming flower? Am I desirable enough to be preserved alive, or am I just an overgrown branch ripe for pruning? I lick my lips and drag in a slow, panicked inhale. His eyes are on me, dissecting me, undressing me, reducing me to the sum of my parts. And yet, it’s not the way the other guys looked at me. They treated me like a prized chicken to strut around. But this new man looks at me like I am made of glass.

Or maybe diamonds.

“Who are you?” I ask quietly, my voice rough as gravel under tires.

The man frowns, a darkness coming over his sharp features. My heart sinks. Maybe he doesn’t speak any English. We are, after all, still somewhere in Russia.

“Privet menya zovut Autumn,” I manage to croak out in fractured Russian.

Both of his dark, thick brows arch in surprise, like he wasn’t expecting me to somehow know any Russian. I can only hope he doesn’t press me to speak more of it, because my understanding of the language is extremely shallow. I know just enough to point myself in the right direction, to ask for help or food or drinks, but certainly not enough to carry a full conversation with… whoever this guy is.

He doesn’t say a word yet, but takes a step closer. I gasp in fear and fall backward against the wall, nearly falling through to the wretched cell I just escaped from. My heart aches with every resounding thump, like it can’t pump hard enough to keep up with how frantic my mind is. I feel like a rabbit caught in a trap, a wolf stalking me from the bushes with dark eyes and darker intentions. Will he rip me to shreds or will he set me free?

I don’t have anywhere near enough optimism left in the tank to assume it’s the latter. Especially when I rip my eyes away from the distinguished Russian gentleman and begin to take in the surroundings of the room I’ve crawled into. I realize now that the cell I was originally housed in here is just a part of the walls.

A secret compartment.

Almost like a walk-in closet that got sealed up for… probably nefarious purposes. But this room is lushly decorated. There is what looks to be a bespoke Turkish rug on the floor, round and intricately-patterned with threads of crimson and gold and deep forest green. Across the room is a gigantic, plush-looking bed with four posts and a gauzy, silky canopy draped between each of the posts, creating a sort of mini-boudoir in the confines of the bed. The sheets are shimmery and perfectly-pressed. The pillows are fluffed and meticulously straight.

There is one window across the room, and I can just barely make out the choppy blue waves of some body of water peeking in between the heavy, burgundy curtains. I wonder what body of water it is. I wrack my brain, trying to think of the geography of the continent. I have never been particularly good at geography either, especially not in the nautical sense.

It would appear that someone has put a lot of effort into this room.

I look over at the man again, my heart still pounding. He continues to watch me with silence, like he’s trying to size me up or something. I instinctively smooth down the front of my blouse and skirt. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak.

“Ya ne prichinyu tebe vreda,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble, almost like an animal growling. It positively thrums through the floors under my feet. He slowly raises both hands, showing me his palms in mock surrender. He regards me with a frown of confusion.

“I-I’m sorry,” I murmur, shaking my head. “I don’t actually speak Russian. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

He nods, never tearing those eyes away from me for even a second.

“Okay,” he says. “I will speak to you in English.”

“Oh. Thank you,” I gasp, totally taken aback.

“I said that I will not hurt you,” the man tells me slowly.

I freeze up. “I’m not stupid,” I mutter. “I know people only say that if they’re actually planning to hurt you.”

“I would not lie about that,” he counters, taking a step closer. “You have no reason to fear me, malen’kiy.”

“I’ve been kidnapped and held in captivity for god knows how long, so forgive me if I’m a little suspicious of a strange man suddenly showing up out of the blue,” I reply, a little more fiercely than I intended.

“I am not one of them,” he claims.

I scoff, folding my arms over my chest while my hand still clutches the small, pointy bit of wood I plucked from the wall. “How the hell am I supposed to believe that?” I asked.

“I suppose you will believe whatever you choose to believe,” he says with a shrug. “But I am telling you the truth. I did not even know you were here.”

“Right. Sure. That makes perfect sense. You just inherited a captive, huh?” I retort.

He nods. “Well, as a matter of fact…”

“Oh, please,” I spit angrily. “Don’t toy with me. I know they sent you to look after me. To keep me locked up in that… that hellhole.”

“I did not even know that room existed, devushka,” he growls. “It is as much a surprise to me as it probably is to you.”

“Then why are you here? Where are all the guards? Where are the men who kidnapped me? I don’t understand,” I blurt out, throwing up my arms in frustration. “I have no reason to believe you’re not one of them, quite frankly. No matter what you say.”

“Calm yourself, Autumn,” he says, and I immediately feel a tingle roll down my spine at the sound of my name in his mouth.

It sounds different somehow. More exotic. I’ve always hated my name. ‘Autumn’ has always seemed like a weird fit for me. I do love that time of year, but every other Summer or Autumn or Winter I ever met was a spoiled rich girl on a cheerleading squad or dance team, the kind of girls who made fun of me and called me Wednesday Addams in the classroom or at recess. But hearing this distinguished, admittedly handsome older Russian gentleman say my name… well, it brings a whole new shine to my name.

Suddenly, I feel emboldened enough to ask a question.

“What is your name?” I ask.

He stares at me hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw. I can tell he is doing his best to restrain himself… but from what? From hurting me? From giving up too much information?

“Come on. I told you my name. It’s only fair that I should get to know what yours is, too. If you want me to trust you, I need your name,” I insist.

He raises an eyebrow, a dark look passing over his sharp, defined features.

There’s a warning note to his voice when he replies, “Careful, malyshka. You admit it yourself that you do not know who I am or what my intentions are. I say that I will not hurt you, but that does not mean I will allow you to give me attitude. I won’t harm you, but I will demand your respect. My name is not important at this moment.”

“That isn’t fair,” I murmur, surprised by how my body is reacting to his authoritative tone. I feel warm all over. And tingly.

“Life is not fair,” he replies grimly. “I would think your time in captivity has taught you that, at the very least.”

I gulp down the lump of fear in my throat. He takes a step closer. This time, though, I stand my ground, staring at him intently. If I’m going to die on this stupid boat, I’m going to do it facing my enemy, not turning and running away like a frightened squirrel or whatever. Besides, what have I got to lose? My eyes flit to the door behind him. It’s closed, but I bet if I bolted for it, I might be able to outrun him. I just need to get closer first, but without arousing his suspicion.

“Do you know who brought me here?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Thugs, I assume. Bad men. Stupid men.”

I nod slowly, impressed. “Yeah, well. I think that’s a fair assumption. But I meant… do you know who they are? Their names? Who they work for?” I press him.

“What, you think just because I am Russian, I must know every other Russian there is in existence on the planet?” he teases, half-serious, half-amused.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I sigh, “I just… I want to know what’s happening to me. What’s going to happen to me. Can’t you tell me anything?”

“Sorry, no. I do not know. You are a mystery to me,” he admitted, stroking at the dark stubble on his chin.

“What is this boat, then? Is it yours? How did I end up in there?” I ask.

“You have many questions I cannot answer,” he groans, putting his hands on his hips.

I tear my eyes away from him and start to look around the room again in earnest, looking for any clues that might tell me what my purpose here is. I look at the walls, my eyes scanning over the beautiful paintings, the tapestries… and then I notice something strange.

A long black whip with a knotted cord, perched on the wall. I frown, blinking my eyes in confusion, wondering if it’s just a bizarre art installation. But then I see something else that puts me on edge. On each of the bedposts, there is a tie, similar to the ones that used to bind my wrists together. On the ceiling is a mirror, and sitting on the dresser across the room are several small, shiny items. A pair of handcuffs. Tongs. Knives. Various toys of a… sexual nature. My heart sinks so low I feel like it might disintegrate into my stomach.

“No,” I breathe, shaking my head. “No. I know why you’ve brought me here. You’re going to do things to me. Bad things.”

The man follows my line of sight to the items on the dresser and it dawns on him that I’m realizing what kind of danger I’m in, specifically. “Der’mo,” he swears to himself, and starts to move toward me.

I scream and throw the splintery bit of wood at him, giving myself just enough of a distraction to dart past him to the door. My hands tremble violently as I turn the knob and stumble out onto the deck of the boat, which is bigger than I expected: a yacht. Screaming my head off, I rush up a flight of a few steps to a higher deck and run to the front of the bow, waving my arms and crying out. Through the sheen of tears blurring my vision, I can see that the coastline is shrinking away rapidly, the yacht surrounded by choppy dark water on all sides.

“Help! Help me, please!” I wail, straining my vocal cords to their extreme.

But nobody can see me. We’re too far out for anyone at the docks to even notice I’m here. And moments later, I feel a pair of impossibly thick, muscular arms wrap around me, pulling me back from the bow, dragging me away.