Page 20 of The Contract

A rug too plush, too decadent for bare feet spills across dark wood floors.

It’s stunning. Lavish. Decidedly regal.

And it has every hallmark of a gilded cage.

Kidnap victims, welcome.

Once the fireplace roars to life, the Russian vanishes without a backward glance, deliberately shielding his face, leaving only thick silence and shadows behind.

The water turns on.

No doubt rinsing two men’s blood from his hands.

Maybe more beneath those rugged nails—leftovers from whatever came before he rescued me.

Rescued…

Right.

I can almost hear Kennedy whispering in my ear.

This isn’t a fairytale, Riley.

No.

This is the remix. Where the prince lights the fire, walks away, and leaves the girl to take in the body count.

I move. Fast.

Fingers scrambling along the edge of the vault-like door, searching for a handle—anything.

There’s nothing.

Just smooth, cold metal and the slow, sinking realization that this isn’t a room.

It’s a cell.

A cell with throw pillows that probably cost more than my rent.

Fuck.

I spin to the window and wrestle with lavish, brocade curtains.

I have no luck prying open the windows behind them because there are no windows. Just drapes and illusions.

My breath heaves in my throat, panic surging hot. And then, I feel it.

Him.

Behind me.

In a slow, regretful turn, I face him.

He stands in the center of the room now. In the firelight.

And for the first time, I see more than just his silhouette.

Dark waves. Black scruff. A crisp white shirt that means he changed his clothes.

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