Page 42 of Inked Adonis

I snort, rolling onto my back on the cloud-soft mattress. The idea of Samuil Litvinov cooking anything is laughable. Though the food in the picture does look homemade, with bits of crushed peanuts scattered just so and fresh herbs still bright green...

NOVA:I’d rather dine with Satan himself than break bread with you.

SAMUIL:Satan’s a terrible dinner companion. No table manners.

Against my will, my lips twitch. I throw my phone onto the bed a few feet away from me. I refuse to be sucked into a flirty text exchange with the man who’s holding me prisoner. That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.

I don’t care that this prison comes with a five-star view and a memory foam mattress—a prison is a prison, no matter how pretty.

Forty-five minutes later, however, the five-star view is starting to look like a five-course meal. The skyscrapers morph into deli subs and long kebab skewers loaded with succulent, perfectly seared chicken and beef.

Almost as though he’s monitoring my thoughts, my phone pings with a message.

SAMUIL:Care to join us?

The question is accompanied by a picture of Rufus sprawled across Samuil’s lap, tongue lolling in a doggy grin.

“Traitor!” I hiss at the screen.

NOVA:If Rufus actually cared about me, you’d be in pieces on that fancy floor of yours.

SAMUIL:Dogs are excellent judges of character.

NOVA: Stop texting me.

He does.

Then I spend the next half hour staring at my phone, waiting for him to text again.

Because prison is boring, and apparently, I haven’t hit my rock bottom yet.

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft hum of the central air and the distant sounds of Chicago traffic fifty floors below. Eventually, I give up on both food and Samuil and crawl under the covers.

I curl up under sheets that feel like clouds against my skin, determined to ignore both my growling stomach and the man who thinks he can buy my compliance with Thai food and dog photos. Sleep comes surprisingly easy in this stranger’s bed, dragging me under before I can wonder why that is.

That’s when the nightmares find me.

The dog is goingto wake Daddy.

I listen for the sound of floorboards creaking, but all I can hear is the barking. “Shh, Morrie,” I beg, walking to the window. “Stop barking.”

But Morrie can’t hear me, either. He strains against the metal chain that keeps him tethered to the neighbor’s fence. The hotmorning sun glints off his pale fur, making the streaks of dried blood glow where the collar has rubbed him raw.

He’s too loud. Daddy got home late. He needs to sleep today. If he doesn’t…

Morrie barks louder, the sound dry and grating. I can hear how thirsty he is. I see his water bowl tipped over next to the fence.

I pull my sneakers on over my pajama bottoms, the canary yellow ones Grams gave me for my seventh birthday. Then I fill a metal thermos to the brim with cold water from the tap and tiptoe carefully to the front door.

Daddy told me to stay inside, but he wouldn’t mind this. He’ll never even know.

As soon as I’m off the porch, I race across the driveway to Mr. Cooper’s house. His lights are all off, his curtains shut tight.

“Morrie!” I call in a raised whisper. “I brought you some water.”

Morrie’s ears perk up. His eyes land on me, and he growls.

That’s when I notice his front leg is bleeding fresh. The steel chain is twisted around his paw, digging into his skin.

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