“Goddamnit, this stupid phone!” I groan in frustration.

I toss the thing across the bed, where I’m sitting cross-legged on the plush bed sheets, a fluffy pillow propped up behind my back.

I have to admit, as annoying as it is to be left behind and locked up in this glamorous room, it could definitely be worse. Maybe that is the main difference between a guy like the ones who captured me in the first place and a guy like Vladimir; they’ll both keep me captive, but one type will throw me in a dark, dank hole in the wall. The other will leave me locked up for my safety, supposedly, in hands down the most luxurious suite I have ever seen in person. I can’t deny that.

All around me, I’m surrounded by the fruits of someone else’s hard, hard labor. The sheer amount of skill and precision that goes into designing a place like this is off the charts. Someone funneled a hell of a lot of cash into making this yacht feel like heaven on earth. Especially with all the white and gold fixtures on the rest of the ship. It’s like someone designed it to resemble the gates of heaven themselves. As if there’s anyone alive who could possibly know what heaven would even look like.

Though, if there’s one thing I have gleaned from all my years of voracious reading, it’s that human beings are constantly trying to imitate heaven. I wonder what kind of instinct that is. What purpose does it perform? Is it a coping mechanism for the struggles of life? Is it an attempt at exacting control over the one thing none of us can escape: death?

Whatever the reason, it sure leads people to build some seriously striking architecture and interior design eye candy.

The master bedroom is a different beast entirely, though. It’s glamorous and comfortable to the maximum, of course, and no expense has been spared in the pursuit of building a truly remarkable, awe-inspiring room. But it’s not all shiny white and gold like the rest of the ship. There are a lot of shining ebony features that, along with the various accoutrements of kinkdom and the slightly dimmer mood lighting, make this place more of a boudoir than an enclave of heaven itself.

Maybe closer to hell, at least where the sins of the flesh are concerned.

Whoever designed this room clearly has some lofty ideas about sex and control. There are so many items in this room meant to restrain someone. A willing participant? Maybe. But judging by the fact that I was being held in the walls like some kind of trapped mouse, I have a pretty strong idea of what kind of man would put me there. The kind of man who genuinely delights in the pain of others. He would drink up my tears and lick his lips at drawing my blood, watching me writhe and squirm under his torture devices.

I shudder to myself, trying to shove that image out of my mind. It doesn’t do me any good to dwell on the hellishness of what could have happened. I escaped it. Or at least, it seems as though I have. I mean, I don’t know how I ended up separated from the filthy villains who kidnapped me from my tour group. Is it on purpose?

Did they intentionally shove me into the wall of this room and leave me there? Or did somebody in the chain of command drop the ball? Am I just the human trafficking equivalent of when the airline accidentally ships your luggage to the wrong state? Just a misplaced item, not valuable enough to go chasing after.

I’m conflicted about that line of reasoning. On the one hand, if they have in fact lost track of me, that’s a good thing, right? It means they might not ever be able to find me and drag me back into the hellish underworld of buying and selling human bodies. I could feasibly escape them, return to America mostly unscathed but with a sour taste in my mouth and a shadow over my shoulder that will prevent me from ever visiting my beloved, romantic Russia ever again.

On the other hand, if I’m so easily forgotten and left behind… well, what does that say about me as a person? As a woman? As a commodity? Because even though I certainly do not want any of those sleazy men to touch my body, there’s still that nagging insecurity that whispers cruelties to me like, if you were more beautiful, they would never have let you go and you are so worthless that not even the slimiest of men bothered to keep tabs on you.

“Bullshit,” I say out loud, almost to scold my own thoughts for turning on me. “Come on, Autumn, you’re better than that. You’ve really fallen from grace if you’re going to let the opinions of literal sex perverts determine your self-worth.”

I groan and stretch out on the bed, grabbing the cell phone and deciding to fiddle with it a little while longer. I slide the screen open, but it immediately prompts me to type in a very long password.

“Ugh,” I sigh, counting the little asterisks that hide what the password actually is. I wonder if it’s just a randomly-generated combination of digits and letters or if someone went through the effort of entering a personal code. Who does the phone belong to? Who brought it here? Why the hell was it stashed under the bed in the master bedroom like an afterthought? Who was it meant to help?

Surely not me.

I doubt my captors would have any reason to provide me with a cell phone.

Hell, they left me locked up in that hole in the wall without so much as a light bulb to illuminate the room, much less any technological comforts like a phone. Not that I would have any idea what number to call anyway. I’m not from Russia. I don’t know people here—just the folks I went on the school-sponsored tour with, fellow classmates and rivals. I don’t know their numbers. I have no need for them.

The only number I still have memorized in my head, tucked away forever, is Ms. Hardwick’s personal cell number. She gave it to me long ago, when we first started working alongside one another and we hit it off.

Normally, she was a very reserved person, a young professor who was nervous about crossing any lines or boundaries with students. She never wanted to be seen as different or stand out too much in the department. It’s a male-dominated department, and even in a more progressive area like New York, that’s still pretty intimidating for a female professor to handle. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, afraid that one of her smarmy colleagues would swoop in and take credit for her work or find some way to hang her up and stall out her research.

Those assholes were always jealous of her, jealous of me, jealous of our harmonious partnership. There were even whispers among some of the crude, stupid boys in my class that we were having some kind of illicit affair. But that was an absurd accusation, not even worth exploring for a second.

We did work well together, and we spent a lot of time hunkered over gigantic, dusty old books in the oft-neglected Russian lit section of the university library, comparing notes and whispering passionately about philosophy and poetry and morality and everything in between.

But it was purely platonic, a mentor-student relationship. Even though I’ve never had a boyfriend or even anything close to a boyfriend, I know that I’m only interested in men. Ms. Hardwick, on the other hand, was a total mystery in that regard. I seem to recall her once mentioning an ex-lover named Nat, but who knows if that was a Nathan or a Natalia.

I didn’t ask.

It wasn’t important.

Not compared to the topics we usually discussed together. We were just good friends. She was the most important person on the planet to me. And then she was gone. Just like that.

I still have her number immortalized in my mind, but it’s useless information, just clogging up the storage in my brain. That number probably belongs to someone else now. A stranger who has no idea who I am or how much that phone number used to mean to me.

I feel the familiar ache in my throat as I fight back tears. I’m not going to cry. Not right now. I have other things to think about than the loss of my beloved mentor. I’ve got a cell phone password to try and crack.

Then I wonder if maybe it belongs to Vladimir. He does rather seem like the type of man who would keep a steady supply of burner phones stashed away in various hiding places. Maybe he stashed it under the bed for emergencies. Or to keep up with whatever dark, nefarious boss he serves. I’m not totally naive

A man like Vladimir, who dresses to the nines and keeps a shiny pistol in his coat pocket, is not a free agent.

He’s working for somebody.

Somebody who pays him awfully well.

God, he’s been gone for so long. He said he would only be away for an hour, but one glance at the little chrome alarm clock on the bedside table tells me that he’s been out all afternoon. I roll over onto my back, still tapping away at random keys on the screen, trying to stumble upon the password by chance.

I like Vladimir, I have to admit. He scares the living hell out of me, and yet I still feel infinitely safer when he’s around. It doesn’t make much sense. He’s completely shrouded in mystery. For all I know, he could be one of them, just hiding in plain sight, lying outright to my face. That would be an awful reality to face—that the man my body aches for is actually just another enemy.

That would be just my luck, wouldn’t it? The one time I feel an overpowering sensual magnetism to somebody, and it’s the guy sent here to capture or kill me. Maybe just keep me on ice before selling me off to the highest bidder.

My stomach flip-flops uncomfortably. I hope that’s not the case. I want to trust him. Or rather, my body wants to trust him. My mind is still much more paranoid. After all I’ve been through, I think that’s fair. I have seen more loss and pain than many of the people I know who are my age. I have been betrayed. I have been scorned. I often feel as though I am all alone in the world. I grew up fast, but sometimes I do still feel rather childlike on the inside. For instance, I have only kissed a boy one time.

It was years and years ago at a frat party I was invited to by a classmate of mine. She was a creative writing student. Blonde hair. Infectious smile. I trusted her—or at least I trusted her more than I did most people. And it was the first semester of my freshman year, so I was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and optimistic about making friends and leading a normal life. I was mostly just excited to go off to college and not be bumped around from one failed foster home to the next.

But when I got to the frat party, I knew within ten seconds of walking into the Kappa Kappa house that I had made a grave miscalculation. The ratio of boys to girls was wildly uneven, and I realized I had been recruited, in a sense, to come to the party. I tried to stick it out, thinking this was my one shot to prove myself tough and grown-up enough for college friendships.

I even sat through multiple rounds of spin the bottle. I let a boy kiss me on the lips in front of everyone. His mouth was too wet, his tongue too pushy. He had thin lips and his breath was hot and smelled of cheap cinnamon whiskey. It was an altogether unpleasant experience, and though I laughed it off at the time, it turned out to be the last college party I would ever attend.

I found out quickly enough that I was perfectly content to sit in my dorm room and read, listen to old records on the player I bought from a thrift shop, and write poetry in bed. My roommates all thought I was a weirdo, of course—I even overheard one of them refer to me as Lydia Deetz on more than one occasion (which, to be fair, I kind of take as a compliment). I have always preferred my alone time, except for when I was with Ms. Hardwick. She was so quiet and unassuming that she put me at ease. I had never felt a kindred spirit connection with anyone before, but she was the first. And I assumed after her death she would be the last.

But I see now I might be wrong about that, because whenever Vladimir was close by, I felt a similar connection with him. Only stronger. And tinged with a bizarre, dark sensuality that defies all explanation.

I can’t wait for him to get back.

And I know just how silly that sounds. After all, he did lock me in this room and leave me here while he goes off to do only god knows what. I have no real reason to trust him, and if there’s anything my experience with men has taught me, it’s that I should be sparing and stingy with my trust. Especially since he’s the kind of man who could tear me limb from limb if he so desires. And yet, I find him utterly captivating. I find myself wanting, no, needing to please him. Like I have this burning ache for his approval and if I don’t get it, I’ll feel like a failure. I want him to like me. I want him to want me the way I want him.

“Jesus. What’s wrong with me?” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

Maybe it’s just Stockholm Syndrome. Or maybe it’s because he’s wildly handsome and distinguished and wise and he makes me feel like there are butterflies and moths flitting around in the cage of my ribs.

Suddenly, I hear a sound upstairs on the deck. A thump. A few thumps. I freeze up and listen intently to… footsteps. Heavy footsteps. I dive under the bed sheets, peeking out at the door as the footsteps get closer. I don’t know if it’s going to be Vladimir or some scary stranger come to kill me. My heart pounds, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I stash the cell phone inside one of the pillow cases quickly as the doorknob to the master bedroom slowly turns. The lock clicks and the door creaks open. I watch, barely breathing, as a dark, lurching figure comes into the room. And then I’m hit with a tidal wave of relief as I realize it is, in fact, Vladimir.

I sit up in bed with a sigh. “Took you long enough!” I exclaim, and then I notice it—he’s wounded. His right bicep, the fabric is torn away and there’s a dark rust-colored stain dripping down his arm. I propel myself out of bed and rush over to him, panicked.

“You’re hurt,” I gasp.

“It is nothing to worry about,” he grunts.

“Like hell it’s not. You’re bleeding!” I insist, guiding him to the bed. “Sit here. I-I bet there’s some kind of first aid kit in the ensuite. Just be still and don’t touch it.”

“I don’t need you to be my nurse, Autumn,” he groans, but I’m already rushing into the ensuite bathroom, throwing open the medicine cabinet in a frantic search for something that might help. I manage to find a spool of gauze, a bottle of vodka, and what looks like a clean rag. I hurry back to stand in front of him, my hands trembling slightly as I pour vodka into the rag and dab at the wound. I grit my teeth, bracing for him to wince or cry out in pain, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Wow. You must have a really high threshold for pain,” I point out, impressed.

He shrugs. “In my line of work, I have suffered far worse than this,” he says.

“And what exactly is your line of work?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He goes silent. I sigh.

“Fine. You don’t have to give away all your secrets just yet,” I relent. “But you should at least tell me how you got this wound so I know how to treat it.”

“Just a bullet,” Vladimir says simply.

I pause and look at him in horror, vodka dripping onto the floor. “A bullet? What the hell happened to you out there? I thought it was just a business deal or something,” I blurt out.

“Business goes sour sometimes,” he admits flippantly. “Besides, the bullet only grazed my arm. It’s a superficial wound. Nothing serious.”

“That’s a lot of blood for ‘nothing serious,’ Vladimir,” I tell him.

“Looks worse than it really is. I will be just fine. I promise, malyshka,” he says softly.

He pushes me back for a moment to pull off his shirt, baring his chest and making it easier for me to get to his wound. I have to force myself not to openly stare at the cut, well-defined lines of his body, the thick strength of his chest and the taut abdominal muscles leading down toward his crotch in a vee shape. He’s even more well-built than I expected from the way his tailored clothes fit his body, and suddenly my mouth feels very dry, my head a little dizzy. He’s mesmerizingly good-looking. I tear my eyes away from his chest to finish cleaning and wrapping up his arm. The bleeding is already staunched, which is a good sign. Then I make the fatal mistake of looking him in the eyes.

The blazing desire in those dark pools is enough to nearly burn me right up. I can smell his musky, heady scent, and it’s making my senses go haywire. With a shaking hand, I reach out and lightly touch his chest, reveling at the sensation of the muscles rippling under his tight, smooth skin. He grunts and grabs my hand in his much larger one, holding it, letting his thumb trace soothing circles into my soft palm.

I lick my lips just as he pulls me in and kisses me. Softly at first, then with more force.

And all I can think about is how this feels so right. This is what a good kiss is supposed to feel like. This is… more than I ever could have dreamed of. Suddenly, Vladimir is pulling me into his lap, my legs straddling his waist. I feel his cock hardening between us and it nearly takes my breath away. My body is trembling and hot with need, a feeling I have never experienced before. He kisses me harder while his calloused hands rove up and down my body, groping me, feeling me up, arousing me to the point of near-hysterics. I need him. Now.

Vladimir breaks our kiss, though, and looks at me hard.

“I won’t take from you what you do not offer,” he growls, his voice low and rumbly.

I swallow hard, feeling as though my toes are slipping over the edge of a precipice from which I will go falling if I’m not careful. But I don’t want to be careful. Not now. I want to fall.

“And what if I offer you everything?” I whisper breathlessly.

“Then I will take it,” Vladimir hisses, diving back in to kiss me again.