II

I followed him closely, slipping through the crowd. His hand gripped my arm tightly, almost possessively, guiding me with a rhythm that mirrored my own reluctant steps. We walked in sync, but I couldn’t escape the sense of danger that loomed over me.

“If you run, I shoot. If you shout for help, I shoot. If you try to act smart, I shoot,” his voice was low, cold, and deliberate. His rules were simple, and fear tightened my chest. I nodded, a small, terrified gesture—like a child too afraid to speak or fight back.

“Smile,” he demanded sharply, his voice carrying an unsettling edge. “Smile. Just like me. See?”

He flashed a smile, but it wasn’t a friendly one. It was forced, stretched, almost like a mask to hide something darker beneath. It transformed his face—turning him from a devilish figure into a seemingly charming man. But the cold metal of the gun pressing into my ribs reminded me of the danger he posed.

“Smile like me,” he repeated, a mocking tone in his voice as he showed me his smile again. His eyes crinkled, dimples appearing on his cheeks like he thought he was being charming. He wanted me to mirror him.

I hesitated for a moment, the smile feeling more like a grimace than anything else, but I did it. I forced a smile.

His gaze was hard, studying my expression closely, and it wasn’t quite what he wanted. “Wider,” he said, his voice gruff with irritation.

I smiled wider, a forced attempt at compliance. It didn’t feel natural. It didn’t feel like me.

He nodded slowly, as though satisfied with my obedience. “Good,” he muttered, as we continued moving through the club.

But I didn’t see Clarissa. I didn’t see Drey. My heart pounded harder as my eyes scanned the room frantically, searching for any familiar faces, any sign of them. The fear gnawed at me, knowing that they might be in danger, too, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

As we neared the door, a crowd of people gathered. They hooted, cheered, and called out to me with drunken enthusiasm.

“You should be a dancer!” one of them yelled, slurring his words.

“You ate!” another voice chimed in, and they all seemed to find the situation amusing.

The crowd’s attention was a blur as they tried to engage with me, but I only felt the tightness in my chest, the helplessness settling deeper. I tried to make my voice heard, hoping someone would see past the façade, hear the tremble in my voice, and realise something was wrong with my big friend here.

“What’s four plus four, girl?” someone asked with a grin.

I squeaked, forcing the words out, the fear creeping in with every syllable. “Ate!” The word came out almost like a scream, but I couldn't stop it. I was panicking, hoping they would notice the fear, the danger, but no one did. They just cheered louder, oblivious to the terror in my voice.

We walked straight through them, past their calls, into the night.

The second the door shut behind us, my forced smile faded. The cold air hit me, sharp and biting against my skin, and the weight of everything that had just happened crashed down on me. The warmth of the club, the noise, the chaos—everything felt like it belonged to someone else. The world outside was too still, too dark, too cold.

Time felt warped, like I’d lost track of it entirely. Minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter anymore.

A bag was thrown over my head, and before I could react, I was shoved into a car. I hit the leather seats with a dull thud, the air leaving my lungs in a rush as the door slammed shut. I didn’t fight it. My body felt heavy, my limbs numb, and I was too exhausted to care. All I could do was lie there in the back seat, listening to my shallow breaths, each one more labored than the last.

The alcohol was catching up to me, the world spinning, and the nausea roiling in my stomach. I knew it was coming. The wave of sickness that threatened to overtake me, and I just hoped—hoped—that if I threw up, it would land on him, not me. He deserved it, after all.

I giggled at the thought, the sound a strange mix of hysteria and discomfort.

From the front seat, I heard his low, irritated voice. “What’s so funny back there?”

I couldn’t stop myself, the words spilling out without thought. “You’ve got an accent!” I squealed, giggling even more, the alcohol making everything seem absurd and strange. “It’s cute. Suits you,” I whispered to myself, the words soft, as though speaking them aloud would somehow make them more real.

He hesitated for a moment, his voice low and unsure. “Thank… you?” It came out more like a question, a surprise in his tone as though he hadn’t expected that response. Then, with a sudden growl, the engine of the car roared to life, the vibrations of it shaking through the seats as we began our journey.

The radio sputtered, static crackling over the airwaves before a song filtered through. It was distorted, faint at first, but I recognized it. Lana Del Rey’s *Cinnamon Girl*. I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. It was surprising, to say the least. A man like him, all tough and gritty, listening to Lana Del Rey? It didn’t quite fit.

But as we drove, I couldn’t help but hum along, the familiar melody filling the quiet space between us. To my surprise, I caught him humming softly along with me, his voice low and slightly off-key, probably thinking I wouldn’t notice.

It made me giggle—soft at first, then louder, more uncontrollable. There was something oddly funny about the whole thing—the gruff, dangerous man who could be so intimidating one moment and yet, there he was, humming along to a song like any ordinary person. And he was terrible at it. His voice was completely off-tune, almost comically so.

Each time his voice cracked and faltered, my laughter bubbled up again. It was a strange, nervous sort of giggle, but I couldn’t stop it.

Finally, the gruffness in his voice cut through my laughter. “If you don’t stop being so creepy, I’ll throw you out of the window,” he threatened, his tone dark and deadly serious, though I could sense a hint of irritation beneath it. I could imagine him glaring at me through the rearview mirror, but I didn’t care. I was too busy laughing at the absurdity of it all.

I stifled a final giggle, feeling a strange mix of fear and amusement, unsure which one had the stronger grip on me.

The car rumbled to a halt, the sudden stop jolting me from my thoughts. I remained still, my body rigid, my mind racing with confusion and fear. The door creaked open, and his presence filled the space like a storm. He poked me with the cold barrel of his gun, a sharp, jarring reminder of where I was and who had control.

“Get up!” he barked, his voice impatient as he jabbed the gun into my side once more.

I said nothing, I couldn’t see with the bag still over my head, trying to suppress the fear clawing at my insides. The cold air outside seemed to seep through the cracks, making the situation feel even more suffocating.

He poked me again, harder this time. “Get up!” he repeated, his voice laced with irritation.

I groaned, more out of frustration than anything else. “If you're kidnapping me, aren’t you supposed to do your job properly and carry me?” I grumbled, wincing at the pain in my feet. “My feet are killing me in these shoes!”

The words slipped out before I could stop them, a mix of sarcasm and desperation. Maybe if I made it sound ridiculous, it would somehow lighten the situation. Or maybe I just wanted to see if he had some semblance of a sense of humour underneath that cold, hard exterior.

There was a moment of silence. No response.

Then, his voice sliced through the stillness, darker than before, dripping with frustration. “I should have thrown you out of the window.”

The threat hung in the air, heavy and biting, and I couldn’t help but shiver at the thought. Still, it was the only response I’d gotten in ages, and somehow, despite the threat, it made me feel a twisted sense of relief.

At least he hadn’t shot me yet.

I could feel the shift as soon as he leaned over me, his body pressing close to mine. He moved with surprising ease, lifting me off the seat as if I weighed nothing. His grip was firm and almost too casual, one arm slipping under my legs while the other supported my lower back, holding me against him like I was just some object to be discarded. The force of his shoulder digging into my lower gut made me grunt in discomfort, but I didn’t have the strength to protest.

Now, I dangled in his hold, a limp, helpless weight against his broad frame. He grumbled low under his breath, and I could practically feel his frustration radiating off him. He hated this. I could tell by the way his muscles tensed, how each movement seemed to carry a begrudging effort. The silence around us felt suffocating, and the only sounds that reached me were his boots crunching on the ground, the gravel and sand beneath his feet scraping with every step.

I couldn’t see a thing, the black cotton bag still smothering my face, blocking any sense of direction or place. I was lost in this darkness, both physically and mentally. The sound of my own shallow breathing mingled with the thumping of my heart in my chest, loud and frantic as my mind tried to process where I was headed.

I couldn't help myself. On impulse, I reached out, my hand landing squarely on his ass in two sharp slaps. It was a ridiculous, impulsive move—just an attempt to break the monotony of fear and uncertainty—but it didn’t go unnoticed.

He stopped in his tracks, and I could feel the tension shift in the air, thick with frustration. I could almost sense his irritation boiling over, his patience wearing thin. “Fuck Viktor,” he muttered, his voice sharp, a curse laced with pure annoyance. “I swear, when I see him, I’ll…” His words trailed off, unfinished, as if he was too angry to even speak them aloud. Then, a moment later, his voice shifted into something even sharper. “Can you not touch my ass?”

I couldn’t help myself. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, escaping in a burst of giggles. “Buns, you mean?” I teased, the absurdity of the situation making it all feel so surreal. “You’ve got a beautifully sculpted ass, mister.”

I could feel the heat of his frustration intensify as he growled low in response. “I swear, I’ll drop you,” he threatened, his voice dripping with exasperation.

I smirked, pressing my luck. “You wouldn’t!” I countered, a playful challenge in my tone.

I could practically feel him roll his eyes in exasperation, but I didn’t care.

The minutes seemed to stretch endlessly, my mind trapped in the haze of confusion and fear, until I heard the unmistakable sound of a gate creaking open. The shift in the air was immediate—the crunch of gravel beneath boots replaced by the smooth rhythm of footsteps on wood. We were inside a building now, the warmth of the space a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive air outside.

His steps were heavy, purposeful, and then, with a jarring motion, he plopped me into a wooden chair. Before I could react, I felt the tight pull of ropes around my wrists, securing me to the handles with a speed that betrayed his experience. The coolness of the wood beneath me did nothing to ease the discomfort; it was a stark reminder of my helplessness.

“Viktor!” His voice rang out, sharp and commanding, calling to someone—probably the person I was supposed to meet, though I had no idea who they were. The room around me was a blur, shapes and figures moving in the dim light, their clothing dark shadows in my restricted vision. But I could tell—two, maybe three men entered the space, their presence filling the room.

“You got the girl?” The voice that answered, casual and detached, sounded almost indifferent. Viktor, I presumed. It was strange, how dispassionate he sounded, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

My big friend, on the other hand, sounded far from casual. His frustration was palpable, even in his words. “You should have asked me to kidnap an exorcist along with her.”

There was a moment of silence, the tension thick in the air. Then Viktor’s voice came again, muffled slightly as if he were suppressing a laugh. “She’s trouble?”

“More like possessed.”

The bag was yanked off my head, and the sudden blast of unfiltered air hit me hard. I gulped it down greedily, each breath sharp and cool, the stale taste of cloth replaced by a fresh, almost overwhelming scent of wood and faint smoke. Squinting, I blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the blinding light that filled the room. My head spun, the world tilting slightly as my vision slowly cleared, each detail coming into focus bit by bit.

A figure loomed in front of me, and my gaze trailed up from his feet, concealed in loose, baggy gray pants. His shirt was an oversized plaid, hanging loosely around a solid build. His face was freshly shaven, sharp and clean, with an aquiline nose that gave him a hawkish, calculating look. But it was his eyes—piercing, unyielding, an intense shade of blue that held a disquieting power—that captured me fully.

For a heartbeat, my mind felt muddled, like I was floating between memory and reality. Then, suddenly, the recollection slammed into me like a punch to the gut. The alleyway. That rain-soaked day. The lifeless body crumpled on the wet pavement, and the man who’d held the gun, standing tall and calm amid the chaos. It was him. The man who had killed that boy. He was right here, staring at me, his expression unreadable yet somehow laced with a quiet menace.

The air felt too thin, each breath harder to draw as a chilling fear gripped my chest. My lungs tightened, my heart thundered, and the horrifying memory took hold. I could feel my limbs go numb, and before I could control it, a warm, humiliating trickle ran down my legs, pooling beneath me on the wooden floor. The shame was almost as consuming as the terror. I tried to steady myself, but I could feel the tears brimming, my body betraying me in front of this man who wore death so casually.

Viktor’s eyes drifted downward, pausing at my exposed thighs, his gaze travelling slowly down to the spreading pool beneath my chair. His brows knit slightly, a moment of mild surprise flickering across his face. Then, without a hint of embarrassment or sympathy, he raised an apple to his mouth, took a bite, and watched me with a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

“It’s her, alright,” he murmured, almost to himself, his tone amused and satisfied, as though I was exactly the person he expected me to be.