Page 4 of Captive Souls

I knew immediately he was there for me.

I’d done all the things women were supposed to do. I ran differing routes at differing times, never making my routine predictable, trying to make myself less vulnerable. There was no way he could’ve possibly predicted where I could’ve been running. Yet there he was, standing in my path. Evidence that nomatter what precautions you took, being a woman existing in a world of men was a dangerous thing in and of itself.

I could’ve gone around him; there was a wide enough berth for me to do so. And I was in gear equipped to run while he was wearing loafers that wouldn’t do well in a chase. Theoretically, I could’ve gotten away from him.

But some part of me knew, just by laying eyes on him, that he’d catch me eventually. A part of me was tired, exhausted by living in this state of fight-or-flight, waiting for this to happen. I was relieved, in a way. The parts of me that weren’t utterly and completely terrified, that was.

Nausea swirled through my gut as the music from my earphones continued playing. Not loud enough for me to be defenseless from the world around me, though.

I still heard the far-off city sounds, traffic, sirens, other people in the park. But somehow, on this stretch of path, there was only me and this man.

The Midnight Man.

He was gorgeous. With the sharp, angular bone structure of a model, high cheekbones, severe jaw, broad shoulders, shiny black hair that bordered his face exquisitely.

Eyes so blue they were like hardened sapphires.

He seemed like a work of art. A truly gorgeous villain had walked off the pages of a book. An immensely odd thing to notice about the man who was going to be my murderer at the very worst and threaten me at the very best. But I couldn’t not notice it. The sweat on my body turned to ice as my instincts recognized him as a deadly predator.

My chest rose and fell rapidly as my body screamed at me to run as fast as I could from this man. I could make it to my apartment before he did—if more of his people weren’t waiting there. I had a go bag, I could leave. But I had no idea where my sister was, and no way would she be answering her phone at sixin the morning. That meant if I couldn’t find her, I’d have to leave her. Not an option.

I came to a stop a healthy distance away from him—even though a healthy distance away from this man would likely be Rhode Island. My heart thrummed, my breath coming in quick pants. I didn’t dare take my attention away from him even though the prolonged eye contact felt sticky, heavy and uncomfortable.

He watched me for longer than I expected, remaining silent. His gaze froze me down to the bone, my lips trembling from the force of it. I’d never been in the presence of someone like this. Not even Stone, my would-be suitor, had this kind of coldness about him.

I was suddenly aware of my clothing, or lack thereof. In my attempts at keeping myself safe from stalkers, rapists and the Italian mob, I listened to music at a low volume and varied my route, but I didn’t cover myself from head to toe. I ran five miles a day, and though it was spring, I got hot. I started with a windbreaker on, but about halfway through, I slung it around my waist, leaving me in only a bright red, cropped sports bra and matching leggings.

I knew my skin was likely flushed with that same red, my cheeks warm, and the hair that had escaped from my ponytail was sticking to the sides of my face.

Though it bothered me plenty that men stared at my exposed skin like they had a right to, I’d never let it get to me like it did now. I had a wild urge to cover every soft spot, every vulnerable piece of flesh from this man’s gaze.

But I was frozen in place, waiting. Unmoving, paralyzed by the knowledge that nothing I could cover myself with would make me invulnerable to a creature like this.

I might as well have served myself up on a silver platter.

There was no expression on the man’s face. Nothing I could glean. It was empty, a handsome, menacing mask of nothingness.

“You need to come with me,” was what he said when he finally spoke.

My body shivered upon hearing his voice.

It was deep. Quieter than I expected. Barely above a whisper, but it had a resonance to it, an authority that made me want to obey him.

I licked my lips, suddenly absolutely parched, my throat burning.

When his eyes followed the motion, I clamped my mouth shut.

I could disagree. Yell. Try to reason with him. But something told me all of those things would fail, and I’d eventually be going with him anyway. And I might or might not be unconscious.

I didn’t run.

I said one word.

“Okay.”

And though I was a millennial who liked all things witchy, I didn’t consider myself a psychic in any kind of way. Nonetheless, I knew deep in my bones that that single word, that submission, would change the trajectory—and maybe the length—of my entire life.

Two

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