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I slowly make my way to the closed door. Unsurprisingly, it’s locked. Just the same, tugging on it and feeling the complete lack of give, and getting an idea of how strong and thick the door itself is, sends a shiver down my spine.
Then the panic truly begins to mount.
I whirl, my pulse spiking as my eyes dart around the room. There’s obviously no sign of my phone, and when I run to the other doors, I confirm what I guessed from the bed: one leads to the bathroom, the other to a huge dressing room.
I bolt to the windows and yank open the white linen curtains that fall to the floor. I wince, shutting my eyes tight against the blinding sun. When I force them back open, I shudder when I take in the view.
I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto…
Turquoise ocean stretches out to the horizon in front of me. Below the windows, there are rocky cliffs and crashing surf. The windows open with cranks, and even though there’s bars over them, I open them quickly and squeeze my head between the iron rods.
Where the hell…?
All I can see is rocky coast and the same sandy stone walls stretching off to either side of me, dotted with more barred windows.
Suddenly, I hear the whine of metal. I jolt, bringing my head back through the bars and whirling to see the knob of the closed wooden door twisting. My pulse thunders as it opens, and a woman maybe a few years older than me wearing a housekeeper’s uniform steps in with a tray.
Weirdly, she doesn’t even flinch as I rush toward her, clearly with every intention of shoving her aside and bolting out of this prison cell. Just as I get to her, she deftly slides the tray onto the weathered, Moroccan-style wooden credenza beside the door and turns to me.
In an instant, I go from charging her to being twisted around with both hands pinned behind my back and an insanely strong arm wrapped around my neck. My eyes bulge, and I try and scream as I fight her. Her arm just tightens, choking me as my bare feet kick and scrabble at the tiled floor.
“Easy, Yaelle,” a deep man’s voice rumbles.
The housekeeper force-walks me back into the room a few steps before dropping her superhuman grip. I pull in a ragged breath, my head spinning as I turn toward her. Then, my gaze goes past her to the huge man in dark pants and a dark dress shirt, tie-less with his sleeves rolled up, showing arms covered in what looks like Bratva ink. His dark eyes sweep over me as he nods his cleft chin.
“You’ll have to forgive Yaelle,” he murmurs in a rumbling bass tone. He smirks as he glances at the housekeeper. “That Mossad training just doesn’t ever turn off.”
I wince as I rub my sore neck, glaring at the still impassive Yaelle. When I rip my gaze to the dark-haired man, he flashes me a small smile.
“My name is?—”
“Where the fuck am I?” I hiss, eying them. Yaelle continues to look at me like she’s a fucking psycho robot. The tall guy just keeps smiling, which is infuriating.
“Where. Am. I,” I spit. “Because this is fucking kidnapping, in case you’re unclear. This is a felony?—”
“As I was saying, Ms. Crown,” the man says slowly. “My name is Milos. And you’re here as a guest of Mr. Krylov.”
I sneer. “Guests have the option of coming or going. Do I have that luxury?”
“That would depend on where you’d like to go, Ms. Crown.”
I glare at him. “This is a fucking crime.”
“I think that could be up for discussion,” Milos says without emotion.
“You locked me in a fucking room!” I snap, my nerves fraying.
“The locked door was merely a precaution—a measure to protect you should you wake up confused.”
“I can’t imagine why I’d be confused,” I snarl. My jaw tightens. “You need to let me go, now.”
He smiles again, spreading his arms. “You’re free to go wherever you please, Ms. Crown.”
My eyes narrow. “Oh, really.”
“Really,” the man dips his head. “Anywhere you’re not to go will be locked.”
“And if I run?” I hiss. “Will I be restrained?” My eyes drop to the gun tucked into his belt. “Or shot?”
