That being said, as I head into the comic book store, I'm wishing I'd brought a sweater. Not every person shopping inside will be a nerd with zero skills regarding the opposite sex-I'm a frequent shopper here, after all-but that is a large percentage of the clientele. Between the nerds and the teenage boys who ogle my bit of cleavage, I can feel like a slab of meat when I'm inside.

I take one step and suddenly, someone is standing right next to me. I jump and yelp in surprise.

"Sorry. I didn't-"

Then, I look up. The man is tall and broad, but a dark hood is pulled low over his face so I can only see his mouth and chin. His lips are tightened into a scowl.

For a second, I wonder if it's a member of my security team. But it can't be. They usually opt for civilian casual-jeans, T-shirts, baseball caps. Not shadowy hoodies. Besides, this man is standing way too close and hasn't said a word to me.

I shy away from him, spinning so I'm walking backwards towards the store, my eyes on the man's looming frame. I regret making fun of the men who frequent the comic book store, because now I'm praying one of them will notice this creep outside and come save me. But I only manage two steps back before I hit something solid and warm. When I try to jump away this time, an arm wraps around my upper body, pinning my arms to my side.

Someone is grabbing me like they mean business.

I'm being squeezed so tightly I can barely breathe, but I strain my neck to look back. Same hood, same shadowy face, but unlike the other man who looked like he was gritting his teeth, this man's mouth is parted, almost as if in shock. And his jawline. The stubble.

The handsome man from earlier.

A hand clamps down over my mouth, and I realize with horror that I've missed my opportunity to scream. Maybe if I hadn't been so busy eyeing him before, I would have noticed something suspicious about him. And maybe if I hadn't been staring at his square jaw and wide mouth, I would have had the presence of mind to scream.

I struggle, legs flailing, body thrashing, but I can feel the fight leaking out of me as if I'm a balloon and someone has poked a hole in my side. My vision goes black around the edges, my arms and legs get heavy, and my head sags to the side. I'm fighting unconsciousness and losing badly. If the man wasn't holding me up, I would fall flat on the pavement.

Then I feel an arm behind my knees and my neck, and the gentle sway of his body as he carries me down the sidewalk. I don't even have the energy to be terrified.

"Sorry about that," he says, his voice a baritone lullaby carrying me off to sleep. Then... darkness.

***

My eyes jerk open. I sit up, aware that something is wrong before I'm even conscious. My head swims, and I press a palm to my forehead to try to keep my brains from sloshing against my skull. I feel worse than I did after my twenty-first birthday when Ivy and I stupidly tried to take twenty-one shots to celebrate. We didn't get anywhere near twenty-one, but I probably vomited twenty-one times.

Happy twenty-first to me!

I'm clammy and cold. The air around me feels stale and still, and I don't need to look around to know I'm in a small room. Each movement of my eyes sends a stab of pain straight to my central nervous system, but thankfully (or unfortunately) there isn't much to look at.

I'm in a cell. Four white walls, no windows, one door with a sliding cutout big enough for a pair of eyes to look in on me. It looks like a room created to hold psychotic patients. I look down and practically expect to see myself tied up in a straitjacket.

I'm still in the same dress I was wearing earlier today. Wait, was it today? Or two days ago? My mouth is dry and my stomach is rumbling, and with no windows, I can't say what time of day it is.

Could I have been unconscious for more than a day?

I feel the rising tide of anxiety in the back of my throat. I swallow and refocus. I have to stay calm. It's the only way I'm getting out of this alive.

I take stock of myself. The men who grabbed me on the street didn't hurt me. They didn't take my clothes off or beat me. I take it as a good sign that, whatever it is they actually want, it doesn't seem to involve violence.

For now.

Slowly, I peel myself off the floor and stumble to the door. The doorknob is locked so tight it doesn't even jiggle.

"Hey!" My throat is raw and dry, and the word comes out as barely more than a rasp. I cough and try again. "Hello?"

My voice echoes down what looks like a long hallway, and when no one answers, I begin to panic. Am I alone? Will I be left to die? Does anyone know I'm here?

I'm wearing a silver bracelet given to me by my father for Christmas. It has my name stamped on a silver plate in cursive, and I spin the plate around so it's on the inside of my wrist and use it to bang against the metal door. The sound echoes off the walls and makes my ears ring, but it's better than screaming. I'd rather scratch my bracelet than lose my voice.

Almost immediately, I hear pounding footsteps growing louder, but I keep banging.

Maybe the person coming is a rescuer. Someone who will be horrified to see a woman being kept in a room.

"I'm in here," I say, a dry cough breaking up the words.

When I stretch on my tiptoes to look through the small opening in the door, brown eyes are already looking back at me. I rasp out a scream and stumble backwards, tripping over my feet and falling on my ass.

The door opens slowly, and I scramble back against the far wall, tucking my legs in front of me to try and make myself as small as possible. Whoever is on the other side of the door, I know they aren't here to help me.

Bright white light fills the room, and I realize the overhead light has been turned on. I blink against the burning in my eyes, and the figure in front of me begins to take shape. Blue jeans, muscular legs, white T-shirt with a fitted brown leather jacket over top, and then a square jaw. The square jaw. It seems silly to remember a feature like that, but I'd know it anywhere. Give me a line-up, and I'd pick him out of it based solely on that jaw.

It clenches, and I look up and realize the man is smiling. It sends a shiver down my spine.

"If you don't want to be tied up and gagged, I suggest you be a good little hostage and keep it down." His voice is as deep as I remember, and I swear I can feel it rumbling through the floor.

"Hostage?" I croak. I sound like a frog, and I know I shouldn't care what this man thinks of me, but I do.

He steps backwards through the open door-if my legs didn't feel like jelly, I might try for an escape-grabs something off the floor, and returns with a bottle of water and a gas station sandwich wrapped in plastic. He tosses both at me. Instead of catching them, I deflect them and then have to crawl across the floor like an animal to grab greedily at the water. After downing half the bottle, I wipe my mouth and lean back against the cold concrete wall.

The man crosses his arms, the collar of his shirt shifting enough for me to catch a bite of black ink sneaking over his shoulder and towards his neck. Tattoos. "Yes, hostage. If you haven't noticed, this isn't a five-star resort. No cabanas, no towels folded into different animals, and no open bar."

"There's room service," I say, holding up the bottle. Joking during times of extreme stress have always been my coping mechanism, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. The square jaw hardens.

In one bound, the man crosses the room towards me and bends down close enough so I can feel his hot breath on my face. I turn my head and flatten against the wall, but I can't help but look at him.

He's beautiful.

I'm reminded of a church sermon I heard as a kid. The pastor explained that the devil was once one of the highest angels. He was beautiful, but evil existed inside of him, and he was cast out of heaven. This man might as well be the devil. The beautiful, sinful devil.

I'm already looking at him, but he grabs my chin and turns my face to his. When he leans forward, I think he might kiss me, but he stops an inch away. His fingers squeeze my face until I worry my bones will shatter.

"You will be here until your father pays your ransom," he says slowly, his brown eyes scanning my face robotically, looking for any signs of weakness. "If you want to enjoy your stay, I suggest you obey commands and keep it down. You won't like it if I have to force you."

My entire body shivers, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. He enjoys my fear.

After another second, he turns my face away, stands up, and stalks out of the room. The door slams shut, and I hear a thick bolt slide into place.

And then I'm alone again.

Chapter Two

Yuri

Despite my threats, the girl starts banging against the door an hour later. The sound ricochets through the vents. Every bang of her hand against the door is a blow to my control, my power. My father's men glance at one another and wonder what I will do to control her. It is my job, after all.

I move calmly down the stairs and unlock her door. This time, she doesn't stumble away and cower. She stands in the middle of the room, feet planted firmly beneath sensuous hips. The food and water seem to have bolstered her courage.

I can take care of that.

The door slams behind me, and I cross the distance between us in a single stride. Her blue eyes widen, but she doesn't move. "Why do you have me here? I deserve to know why I'm being-"

I grab her arm and fling her back against the wall. She hits the concrete with a whoosh, the air in her lungs being forced out. Her head tips forward, long black hair falling over her heart-shaped face.

I'm in front of her before she can catch her breath.

"You don't deserve anything," I growl. "Least of all from me."

"But I-" The words are no more than a whisper, but if I was properly terrifying her, she wouldn't even be able to manage that. If she isn't scared enough to stay quiet, then I've failed in my duty.

"You have been warned to stay quiet," I say, clawing a hand down her side, enjoying the way her waist flares out. I dig my fingers into her flesh. "You have been warned that you won't like it if I have to force you."

Her pink lips part in surprise before slamming shut. Her dark brows lower, and she glares at me with more hatred than I've ever seen before. "Beat me if you want. Hit me if that makes you feel like a big, tough man. I'm not afraid of you."

I step forward until my hips are pressed against hers, until our bodies are flush. I can practically feel the thrum of her pulse against my zipper, the beat of her heart growing more and more wild.

"Who says I want to hit you?"

My fingers brush against the back of her knee and move upward. Her skin is velvety smooth, and she gets warmer the further I move under her skirt. She tries to smooth down her skirt, but I use my other hand to pin hers above her head. For all her toughness, it's clear she's outmatched. I could overpower her with a single finger.

"There are other ways to break someone," I whisper as my hand finds the waistband of her panties. They're simple cotton, but they might as well be lace for the way my body reacts to the discovery. I'm only trying to frighten her, to let her understand what kind of consequences await further disobedience, but I want to know what she's hiding under those undergarments. What treasure is waiting to be found.

Her blue eyes are a vibrant sky blue, but there's an undeniable fire there. She burns bright, and it's my job to douse the flames.

I dip my hand lower, running my fingers over her sex. She tries to stretch away from me, but I don't let her. "I'm more than happy to do whatever it takes to turn you into a good girl."

Suddenly, she leans forward and tips her head back. Instinctively, I mimic her movement, drawing my face close to hers. Her nose is a button, her chin pointed. She looks like a cartoon princess. "What if I'm not a good girl?" she purrs.

Her seductive edge is unexpected. I rise to attention in more ways than once, and I'm shocked by the effect she's having on me. But before I can say anything, she jerks her chin back and spits.

It catches me by surprise. I have to take a second to steel myself. Don't react. Don't give her that satisfaction. Take control of the situation – now.

I tighten my grip on her hands until she whimpers. One long, slow breath sliding down into my chest. I feel the sense of calm, of power, radiating through me once again. Looking at the girl, I can see her jaw is still clenched, lips still pressed tightly, but she's uncertain. Nervous.

Good. My turn.

I dip my fingers inside her panties, expecting her to beg me to stop. To plead. She doesn't, and I'm surprised until I feel the wetness between her legs. She's turned on. And when I feel her excitement, my own begins to take over. Before I can stop myself, my fingers slide into her. Three. At once.

Her lips part, and I feel the exhale on my neck as I work my fingers in and out of her. She's straining against my hold on her hands, but it isn't to escape. She's writhing with pleasure.

I bring my lips to her ear. "You aren't a good girl, are you?"

Her body clenches and she snarls. "I hate you."