I look at Vladimir with my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. I scoot a little closer to him, as though the warmth and raw strength radiating off of his powerful, much larger body is enough to protect me. My hand inches closer to his, my small, lithe fingers wrapping around his thumb.

It strikes me yet again how much bigger he is than me, how small and vulnerable I must look compared to a man like him. His whole body is tensed up, his muscles clenched as he slowly turns his head to listen.

He reminds me for a moment of a wolf I saw at a wildlife rehabilitation center back home. Alert. Perfectly still, every muscle and instinct turned toward the potential threat. That wolf was in captivity for reasons beyond its own fault, and yet the instincts never fully dissolved inside of him. He was always poised to attack.

To protect what he considered his territory, even if that territory only existed behind the crisscross wire fence of his enclosure. Vladimir is similarly boxed in, I realize. This yacht is like a prison, the unruly waves surrounding like us like a chain-link fence. Like miles and miles of chain-link fence, filled to the brim with sharp-toothed patrollers meant to keep us locked here together. I can’t help but wonder what kind of karma I must have incurred to end up like this.

I still can’t quite figure out whether it’s a curse or a blessing to be stuck here with Vladimir, specifically.

He is a difficult man to read, which I assume is intentional on his part. He likes to be mysterious. He plays his cards close to his chest instead of wearing his heart on his sleeve. I can appreciate that. I know the value of keeping your feelings private and unseeable. That is what I have been trying to accomplish my whole life. If I don’t look vulnerable, nobody can treat me with scorn. Or worse, pity.

Though I have an inkling that all of my usual smokescreens meant to obscure my true feelings and fears are lost on Vladimir. He takes one look at me and seems to immediately penetrate beyond those carefully-constructed walls. He sees past my facades, all one hundred of them, and sees the true Autumn underneath it. That’s intimidating. And yet… I feel strangely safer when he’s near me. Which is why when he slowly rises to his feet, reaches into his inner coat pocket and withdraws a gun, and starts to quietly stalk away toward the stairs, I can’t help but trail after him like a lost puppy.

“Is that a real firearm?” I hiss, eyeing the shiny metal piece with distrust.

He glances back at me over his broad shoulder and nods grimly. “Da. Of course it is a real gun. What use would I have for a pretend-gun?” he growls.

“I suppose it would be useful against pretend-enemies,” I reply in a whisper, trying to make light of the situation.

It’s an annoying defense mechanism of mine, I know. When things get a little too real, a little too scary, my instinct is to be flippant. It makes me a very annoying person to see horror movies with or attend haunted houses with. When I truly feel scared or backed into a corner, I just get silly. It annoys me just as much as it annoys everyone else.

“When have you ever encountered a pretend-enemy?” Vladimir murmurs, turning back to what lay in front of him, still walking with surprising lightness considering his size and bulk.

“High school cafeteria, circa twenty-fourteen,” I reply easily, shuddering as I recall a flash of what it felt like to be me in high school. Senior year. Snide remarks and hushed giggles and raised eyebrows and cold shoulders. Ah, the golden age. I can only hope I didn’t peak at seventeen like some of them did.

“Quiet, malyshka,” Vladimir growls back at me. “We might not be alone on this ship.”

“Do you think it might be one of the guys who captured me?” I whisper, a mere half-step behind him.

He stops abruptly and I bump into him, letting out a little yelp as I fall backwards. He swiftly hooks a strong arm around my waist and keeps me from toppling over and potentially making a very loud thumping sound. He holds onto me for a long, intense moment, those dark eyes blazing as he gazes at me.

There’s a silent warning in his expression that makes me gulp in fear. I am instantly reminded that no matter how strongly I want to react to all of this with my usual morbid sense of humor, the truth is that these are not pretend-enemies. These are not high-school-level bullies. We are dealing with criminals—the seriously disturbed kind. And I need to take this more seriously.

Vladimir seems to notice the resignation on my face and his expression softens. He gives me a curt nod and then lets go of me. But even when he turns back around, gun held out in front of him to presumably shoot the head off of any hidden stowaways, my body is ringing with residual touch. It’s like I can still feel his arm around me, the warmth of his flesh, the clenching muscles of his arm. It occurs to me that this man could throw me like a damn javelin if he so desired to do that. And hell, considering how my body responds to being in mere proximity to his, I might actually let him.

Of course, we have to survive this current crisis first. I stay close behind Vladimir as we quietly pad across the opulent deck, outfitted in glitzy white chrome and gold finishing. It looks like a caricature of luxury, like it was designed by someone with too much money and not enough good taste. New money, probably. I saw a lot of that in university, especially in the English department. Lots of bored future housewives and eccentric book-collector types who attended classes because Mommy and Daddy said so, not because they were genuinely interested in Russian literature.

Not like me.

I don’t come from money. I don’t even come from a singular stable home. My passions are all I have, especially after Ms. Hardwick passed away.

I push my glasses back up into place reflexively, as I often do when I’m feeling fidgety or stressed out. And this is stressful to the maximum. I keep picturing what kind of monster might jump out at us any moment now. After all, somebody had to have put me on this damn yacht. The details of my arrival here are still so hazy in my mind. I think those awful men must have chloroformed me or something, because I have almost no memory of being transported into that sealed-away little hellhole in the wall of the master bedroom.

I can guess at the reasons why I was kept in there, but I still don’t understand why they all kidnapped me in the first place. Vladimir hinted at something really dark. Trafficking. Like I’m just an easy commodity to be stolen and sold off to the highest bidder, the intersection of the most wealthy and the most depraved. I shiver with fear at the thought that one of those awful guys could be lurking somewhere in the dark, shadowy bowels of the ship.

Waiting.

Like a sleeper cell, activated by some unsuspecting movement of ours.

I keep close behind Vladimir. I don’t know how it happened, but I feel safer with him than alone, even though I hardly know anything about him. I know I should fear him, too. After all, he could be lying to me about everything. He could be playing dumb. But either way, I am in no position to question his authority. If he wants to boss me around and play house together like he’s my serendipitous protector, I’ll have to let him.

I mean, he’s the guy with the gun. I can’t argue with a bullet.

I follow him through the gilded halls and glistening furniture, the glitzy bar with the shiny bar stools and the flawlessly-polished taps, past the enclosed room with the indoor pool inside, and down the steps to the lower deck where the master bedroom is located. With every step, I feel my fears creeping up higher and higher over me. Goosebumps pop up along my arms and legs as I continue on like a shadow behind Vladimir. He never says a word, never makes a sound. Even his footsteps are somehow muted, as though he’s walking on air itself.

I make more noise than he does, even though I’m almost comically smaller than him. I wonder, once again, what line of work Vladimir must be in to have developed such a particular array of skills. He carries a gun. He dresses like a cross between a stodgy old professor (the kind I would almost certainly have a schoolgirl crush on), a runway model for winter wear, and a steel-nerved assassin trained in the Siberian wilderness. It’s one hell of a cocktail, and I find myself both drawn to and fascinated by his every movement, his every word, and the delicious accent with which he says them.

Especially those little terms of endearment. I can’t pretend like I don’t get a bizarre kick out of those. Normally, I am the type to resist being infantilized or coddled like a baby, but the way Vladimir says those sweet, sweet words… well, I can’t help but feel tingly all over.

I wonder how my opinion of him will change, though, if I have to watch him shoot a man to death. Because something about the way Vladimir wields that gun tells me it’s not his first time, and probably won’t be his last. The gun seems almost more like an extension of his arm than a separate entity, and I can’t quite decide if that terrifies me or comforts me. Possibly, it’s both. I’ve been learning lately that the world is much less black and white than I previously assumed. And where I am now, this niche I currently reside within, it’s the gray area. It looks like this might be my home for the long haul, so I’d might as well wiggle in and get comfy here. With Vladimir. And his gun. And that mysterious banging noise from down below.

We pad silently down the little hallway toward the door to the master bedroom, Vladimir having isolated the sound to that room. I feel another shiver of unease, realizing that if there is some kind of sleeper agent in there, it almost certainly means he was in there watching us when I first encountered Vladimir earlier. Are we being watched even now? It’s a horrifying thought. I just keep close behind my mysterious rescuer, who stops at the door and looks back at me with those dark eyes narrowed in a warning.

He mouths the words, Stay here.

I frown and shake my head vigorously, wanting to go with him. I don’t want to be left all alone out here! What if it’s a trap somehow? I don’t want to be separated from Vladimir’s side for any reason or any length of time. But he holds up a silencing hand and shakes his head with an air of finality. I realize once again that he is the one wielding a firearm. It would be foolish of me to argue with that. So I step back and lean against the wall, relenting to his authority.

He mouths the words, Good girl.

That familiar tingle travels down my spine. And then he opens the door to the master bedroom, stepping through the threshold with gun at the ready. I hold my breath and shut my eyes, trying to shrink back against the wall so that I’m small and unobtrusive. Trying to make myself nonexistent, just in case things go sour in there. I listen intently, not even daring to breathe, and I hear the banging sound happen again.

Fear creeps into my veins and I start to tremble, imagining all sorts of horrific fates befalling the one man with whom I feel even slightly safe, the man who seems more noble and good-hearted than he lets on. What if someone hurts him? I hate to think about that.

But then I hear a strange and completely unexpected sound. A sound so strange and out of place it actually fills me with an even deeper fear.

Laughter. Specifically, the low, gravelly chuckle of Vladimir himself.

“What the hell?” I murmur to myself. Unable to control my curiosity, I quietly creep over to the door and peer through the cracked opening to see Vladimir putting his gun back in its place inside his coat pocket. Frowning in confusion, I creep into the room.

Vladimir turns back to me with a surprisingly bright, upbeat smile on his otherwise heavy features. He throws up both of his arms and laughs, then gestures to an open cupboard at the far wall. The door of the cupboard has come loose. The yacht shifts a little on the choppy water and the door bangs open and closed again, perfectly replicating the sound we heard aboveboard.

Relief washes over me as I burst out laughing. “Oh my god. It’s just a stupid cupboard. Seriously? I thought we were going to die,” I gasp, shaking my head.

“Even if there had been an enemy in here, you would not have died,” Vladimir assures me. “I will protect you, Autumn. You know that.”

A surge of warmth and affection fills my heart. “I know. I trust you,” I reply, smiling. And for once, I’m not just saying it. I believe every word of it.

“We are a little jumpy, aren’t we?” he chuckles, walking over to me.

“Yeah, clearly,” I agree. He touches my shoulder gently, and I feel such an immediate jolt of magnetic attraction that my reflexes bounce me away from him. It’s too much. Too fast.

I walk over to the cupboard and peer inside, my eyes widening. I grin and start pulling items out of the cupboard, spinning around to look at Vladimir in glee. “Look! These are my own clothes!” I exclaim.

“Really? Hmm. They must have held onto them for some reason,” Vladimir says.

“I don’t care what the reason is—these clothes are from my suitcase. I haven’t even worn these yet. I can finally change into clean clothes, Vladimir!” I gush, spreading out the articles of clothing on the big, fancy bed.

He watches me closely as I select a brown corduroy skirt, a ruffled violet blouse, knee-high brown stockings, and my favorite navy-blue kitten heels. I look fondly over the clothing, running my fingertips over the fabrics. They even still smell like my suitcase, like the laundry detergent I used back home before I even left for my trip to Russia. I want to immediately change clothes, but…

“Oh. I will give you some privacy,” Vladimir says suddenly. “I will go back up to the deck. Join me when you are finished.”

“Of course. Thank you,” I tell him, smiling.

He gives a distinguished sort of bow and then leaves me to it. I happily get dressed in my clean clothes, feeling instantly a hundred times better than before. I put my glasses back on and decide to give the room another quick look around before I go upstairs. I wander through the gorgeous black and white room, letting my fingers drag along the walls, my eyes taking in all the bizarre built-ins I missed before. A glistening silver pole in a corner of the room, clearly meant for pole dancing or something.

A gigantic X-shaped wooden structure on the wall, which I believe is called a St. Andrews Cross. I’m not one-hundred-percent sure what it’s for, but I know it must be something… kinky. I have never even come close to that realm of experience, so it’s all new and bizarre in my eyes.

I wander over to the dresser and begin pulling open the drawers, my eyes widening as I discover even more sex toys of various shapes and colors and textures. Then I find a wide drawer completely stuffed to the brim with fancy, lacy lingerie. All of it looks to be roughly my size. My stomach twists into knots uncomfortably.

I realize that Vladimir was right. I can’t go back to Russia.

Clearly someone had plans for me. Dark, dirty plans. It hurts my heart to think about it. All I wanted was to explore the beautiful, mysterious country that has produced some of the most brilliant minds, the most stunning prose, the most fascinating philosophy. And I can’t even have that without some man—or a group of men, more like—ruining it for me.

The yacht lurches again and I get dizzy, stumbling to the floor in a dazed heap. I still haven’t quite gained my sea legs, clearly. I stay on the floor for a few minutes, just letting the room stop spinning. I look around lazily, just wasting time before I have to try and get up and walk again on the uncertain ground. I scan the floor, looking under the dresser, the rug, and then finally… the bed.

I see something glinting in the low light. Something vaguely familiar in shape and size.

“What?” I murmur. “A cell phone?”

My heart begins to pound faster and faster. I scramble to grab the phone, clutching it in my hands like it’s a precious magical artifact. Maybe I can turn the thing on and call for help!