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I came in here planning to launch a hunger strike to earn back my freedom. That plan went kaput on the first day when a different, less curmudgeonly maid had walked into my room pushing a serving cart filled with the most delicious things I’ve ever put in my mouth.
Blackened salmon drenched in a lemon garlic sauce. The silkiest pasta I’ve ever eaten. Flaky pastries bleeding raspberry filling. The list goes on: shrimp cocktails, buttery ribeyes, scalloped potatoes dusted with luscious parmesan cheese.
It was like I’d died and gone to culinary heaven.
Only problem is, I’m still trapped in culinary heaven with no lifeline to the outside world. The deliciousness of the food I’m constantly being served isn’t enough to make up for the fact that I’m a caged bird.
The worst part: I don’t know why.
I don’t know much, in fact, other than that Kolya is not who he claimed to be. But still, there’s a reason he’s locked me up here. There’s a reason he wants me to stay.
And apparently, it’s not because he wants to talk to me. I’ve been here for three freaking days and there’s been no sign of him. No courtesy visit. Not so much as a simple inquiry into my well-being.
Oh hey, June, it’s Kolya. Just wanted to check in and see how the abduction was going for you. Comfortable? Good, I’m glad to hear it. We here at Asshole Enterprises work our little fannies off to make sure our guests are pleased. Leave us five stars!
“I want to see your boss,” I tell She-Thor.
“He is unavailable at the moment.”
I roll my eyes. “‘At the moment’? He’s been MIA for days. The least he can do is come up here and speak to his prisoner.”
She doesn’t respond to that. “If there is nothing else, madam, then I will excuse myself.” She-Thor backs out of the room, her feet shuffling over the lush carpet, then stomps off down the hallway.
But there was something missing from that little production. One tiny, telltale sign.
She didn’t lock the door.
I wait with bated breath until I’m sure her footsteps are fully gone. Then I race over to the door and stand in front of it, mind racing.
It seems like a strange oversight from a woman who takes her job a trillion times too seriously, but I can’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth. Cautiously, I crank open the handle and pull the door open.
I poke my head out and look both ways. All seems clear.
I slip into the hallway, painfully aware that I’m wearing a pair of silk pajama shorts that barely cover my ass. Not exactly the outfit of my jailbreaking dreams.
But there’s no time to go back and pick fresh clothes out of the absurdly stocked walk-in closet in my quarters. It’s now or never.
I’m almost at the spartan staircase that leads down to the second floor when I hear the sound of more footsteps. I duck through the first door I see and find myself in a room that’s mostly mirrors, fine pieces of framed art, and a Turkish carpet covering most of the marbled floor.
“Lost, are you?”
I gasp and turn on the spot. I was so preoccupied with the decor that I didn’t even notice the well-dressed woman standing by the windows.
She’s wearing pants so white they’re almost blinding. Her black tank top is tight-fitted but modest and her long blonde hair spills down her arms with waterfall-like elegance. She’d be tall enough without them, but her high heels have her towering over me. She looks like if the goddess Venus stepped right off her shell in that famous painting and went shopping at Prada. I’m intimidated, to say the least.
“Who are you?” I croak.
She cocks her head to the side. “I think the better question here is, who are you?”
She’s playing hard ball, I decide. Which means I’ll have to do the same. Whoever this woman is, she clearly doesn’t live here. She’s dressed too much like a guest paying a visit. She’s either a friend of Kolya’s or his girlfriend. My money’s on the latter.
I feel a little tug of annoyance at the realization. Of course he would be with someone like her—glamorous, chic, imperious. It’s boring how predictable it is.
“I’m a guest of Kolya’s,” I say vaguely.
“A guest of Kolya’s?” One eyebrow rises delicately. It’s perfectly plucked, of course.
“Right. June. I’m June.”
