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He raised an eyebrow, bringing his face closer to mine, his dark eyes locked onto me, and his lips inches from mine. When his minty breath touched my lips, I had no choice but to turn my head away.
He chuckled, nudging my cheek with his nose before burying his face in the crook of my neck and trailing kisses down my skin. He kissed, licked, and sucked the sensitive area behind my ear.
Tears fell from my eyes as I stayed frozen, staring at the white ceiling, trying to mentally escape and pretend his touch didn’t affect me.
A demonic laugh echoed in the air, fueling a blaze of hatred in my heart.
The bastard was playing with me.
I clenched my fists, burning with a desire to hurt him, crush his ego as he had crushed mine, and make him suffer. But I knew I wasn’t capable of that.
I was too scared.
Cowardly, I stood there as he kissed the crook of my neck, a low moan escaping my lips, which I quickly silenced with my hand.
“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered in my ear.
I silently cried while he gently caressed and massaged my hair.
His hands gripped my hips as he kissed up my neck, nipped at my earlobe, then pulled back slightly and released me.
“See,” he chuckled. “Now you’re silent.”
I cupped my head in my hands and let myself slide down the wall, pulling my knees to my stomach. I felt a profound sense of humiliation. I wasn’t myself; I was just a spectator in my own body, unable to control any of it.
I heard him move back to the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight.
I didn’t dare meet his eyes.
I had to do something. I had to save myself, because only God knows what awaited me once this plane landed.
I got up, dusted off my clothes.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, hoping I’d wake up soon from this horrible nightmare.
I looked up and saw him seated on the bed, arms crossed on his lap, eyes closed. He looked as though he was praying or meditating, but I knew he must be plotting his next move. The contrast between his dark attire and the room's stark whiteness made him seem both out of place and powerful.
Despite the odd feeling his presence created, his face looked peaceful, calm, and in control. I almost didn’t want to disturb him, fearing the consequences.
But I deserved to know what was going on in this human trafficking mess.
The more I knew, the more options I had to save myself.
After a long moment, his eyes shot open.
I braced myself for a blow or an insult, but he simply got up, walked to the door, and before opening it, turned around and offered me a crooked, devilish smile.
“Russia, Sofiya. Someone wants to see you,” he said, and then, like a ghost, he was gone.
Acid coursed through my veins, my heart pounding. I must be dreaming. This had to be the worst kind of nightmare.
Russia? I haven’t been to Russia since I was maybe five years old.
I didn’t know anyone there.
Confusion settled in my chest.
I was still a child when my papa died in a car crash on his way to work in Moscow. He was a truck driver, delivering food stock across the country, which meant he was rarely home with us.
