Page 33 of Savage Don's Captive

Just as I’m about to take off again, I hear a metal door swing open behind me, the clang of it slamming against the concrete wall makes me jump. I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat, fingers already curling into defensive fists.

A lanky and awkward man walks out of the door with a tall, gangly frame that almost seems too big for him. His messy red hair sticks out from under his baseball cap, curling at the edges, and his pale skin flushes from the effort of carrying three bags of garbage. His large, round nose and wide eyes give him a perpetually bewildered expression as he struggles, fumbling with the weight of the bags.

He looks up, noticing me cowering at the end of the alley like a wet rat. The look on his face is replaced by surprise, which in an instant morphs into concern.

“Hey!” His Adam’s apple bobs nervously as he calls out. “Are you okay?”

I don’t reply as he tosses the bags inside the dumpster, his skinny arms straining with the effort. He wipes his hands on the back of his pants before he walks toward me, shoulders hunched forward like he’s trying to appear smaller, less threatening.

My shoulders lower slightly at the genuine concern in his eyes. Maybe I really did run that far. Maybe this guy has no idea who Dominic is. Maybe, just maybe, I can ask him for help.

“I’m Harold,” he extends his hand, then awkwardly pulls it back when I don’t immediately reach for it. “You look like you need help. Do you need me to call someone?”

I should try calling my father. Maybe, just this once, he’ll answer. Maybe he’ll actually help me get out of here. It’s a long shot, but what choice do I have? Desperation claws at my chest as I nod at the man—at Harold. I cling to the hope that maybe my luck isn’t completely gone, that there’s still a chance, however slim, that I’ll make it out of this mess.

“Why don’t you come inside and keep warm? I’m just cleaning up the club. I can heat something up for you. Maybe find something from the lost and found for you to wear.” He doesn’t look like he’s going to kill me. Maybe it’s the smile or merelankiness of the boy that makes me gravitate toward him. “Do you have a name?”

“Colette,” I answer, using my second name, my fingers gripping the hem of my soaked shirt.

He nods, spinning towards the direction of the door, leaving me to decide whether to follow him. What happened to stranger danger? Maybe when you’re in a situation like mine, it just doesn’t matter anymore. After all, what’s worse than being locked in one of Dominic’s rooms, waiting for whatever comes next?

“Are you coming, Colette?” he asks, holding the door with one bony hand, his knuckles white from the pressure.

Here goes nothing, I think to myself as I walk towards Harold.

Ten minutes. That’s how long I’m going to give myself to stay in there and wait for whatever he promised me a few moments ago. Warmth. Food. Some change of clothes.

The back kitchen is a mess of contradictions. As I stumble in, still soaked from the downpour, the place looks deceptively clean at first glance. But the sink is a disaster zone—piles of dishes from last night stacked high, streaked with food remnants. The faint, stale smell of beer hangs in the air, mixing with the dampness I’ve brought in.

“Why don’t you take a seat,” Harold slides a kitchen stool towards me, the metal legs scraping against the floor. He shuffles to the fridge, head ducking inside as he rummagesthrough the shelves. After a moment, he emerges with an almost empty tray of eggs and a stick of butter. “Scrambled eggs it is.”

Given my current state, I won’t care if he hands me a moldy, stale loaf of bread.

Harold sets a skillet on the stove and ignites it, the blue flame leaping to life. He cracks two eggs into a bowl and whisks them vigorously, his wrist flicking with unexpected precision. The butter sizzles as it hits the hot pan, followed by the eggs that hiss and bubble on contact.

As he cooks, my eyes dart around the room, cataloging potential weapons. My gaze locks on the hilt of a knife, partially hidden under a stack of plates in the sink. I mentally measure the distance between my stool and that potential lifeline.

Harold slides the fluffy scramble onto a plate and pushes it toward me, along with a steaming mug of coffee that releases tendrils of fragrant steam into the air.

“Here you go,” his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Thought you might need something to go with that.”

“Thank you, Harold,” I mumble before attacking the eggs, shoveling them into my mouth with such force that my jaw aches.

“Woah,” His eyebrows shoot up as he takes a step back. “I’ll go check something from the lost and found for you so you can change. Then you can call whoever you need from my phone.”

I nod, barely registering his words as I continue to devour the food. I don’t care that the eggs are bland or that the coffee burns my tongue. My body screams for sustenance, and I respond with animal-like desperation.

As Harold’s footsteps fade down the hall, my shoulders finally drop from their tense position. My hands shake slightly as I lift the coffee mug to my lips, the ceramic, warm against my frozen fingers. Excitement fills my chest at these small victories. The clock on the kitchen wall tells me it’s not even noon yet. To say the least, I have one heck of a productive morning.

The caffeine jolts through my system, bringing me back to life. Once I change into something dry, I’ll be ready to push forward, find my way to the city, check into a hotel, and do what I have to do to get the hell out of this wretched state.

I jump when the doorknob rattles, my spine straightening like a rod. My pulse spikes, and I shovel the last bit of eggs into my mouth, chasing it down with the rest of the scalding coffee in one quick gulp. My ten minutes are up.

“Thanks, Harold—“

The words die in my throat as the door swings open. My entire body freezes, blood turning to ice in my veins.

Standing in the doorway, ruby-encrusted brass knuckles glinting on his fingers, is Dominic Gianelli. His jaw clenches rhythmically, a muscle twitching beneath his perfectly shaved skin. His eyes—cold, calculating, murderous—lock onto mine with predatory focus.

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