Page 4 of Shutter and Sin
He looks at my wrists, something like amusement dancing in his brown eyes. “Well, you’re free to go.”
I stand up, fuming. He’s tall. Intimidatingly so. I have to crane my neck to look him in the eye. He just stares down at me, calculating. I take the opening and kick his shin with every ounce of strength I have left, the surprise hitting us both.
Pain explodes through my toes. “Ow! What…is your leg made of, iron?!” I hop back, clutching my foot like an idiot.
He doesn’t even flinch. “Why would you do that? Now you’ve ruined your foot.”
“Ow, ow, ow... it hurts!”
One minute he is standing in front of me, and the next, he scoops me up into his arms, bridal style, his arms cinched around my waist. He feels like a wall of solid muscle beneath that suit. I resist the urge to sigh in slight satisfaction.
“Put me down! What are you doing?”
“You’re injured. I’m taking you to a clinic.”
This makes zero sense. He kidnapped me. “And the camera?” I snap, squirming in his grip. “Are you paying for it?”
“No.” He walks away, the floor echoing with every step. “I’ll buy you a dress. A car. Anything else. But I won’t fund your career as a nuisance, Zoya.”
Control freak.
The night air teases the curls of my hair as he carries me to a sleek black car waiting outside.
We drive through the industrial district wrapped in a heavy, pulsing silence—one that feels suffocatingly familiar. I stare out the window as the dark buildings blur past, trying to ignore the sharp throb in my foot, until he finally breaks the quiet. “Tell me about your OnlyFans.” I whip my head around to glare at him. He seems like someone who is used to getting every of hisdemands met. I’m really not sorry to disappoint him. “I do not want to discuss my personal life with my kidnapper.”
He chuckles, then looks at my foot resting on the seat. “If it bruises and you need a cast or surgery, I will cover the cost. Don’t worry.”
“Quite generous of you. But not generous enough to replace a camera you broke.”
He leans in closer. My hair had already been scattered from all the yanking, and he uses his hand to smooth it down gently. “You have such unruly hair. It’s everywhere.”
He leans even closer and I push my face backward. “Okay. Haven’t you heard of personal space?”
His lips curl into a smirk as he focuses on the road, reclining into the passenger’s seat.
Ten minutes later we pull up to the hospital, and he carries me straight through the front entrance while his men spill out of the cars that followed us from the warehouse, trailing right behind us. The receptionist looks up from her desk, her eyes widening the second she takes us in. “I would like to get her checked out,” he says immediately. Just that simple and seemingly plain sentence. Yet, it is enough to get everyone moving. They bring a wheelchair and he sets me down in it carefully, then turns to the receptionist and pulls out his wallet. “I’ll cover all costs.”
He looks down at me one last time. “Stay in the hospital for a bit. Don’t move around. Get your foot checked properly.”
With that, he turns and walks away, his men falling into step behind him. I sit in the wheelchair, staring after the man who caused all this damage. What the fuck even happened? The doctor examines my foot twenty minutes later. She presses on my toes and I wince. “It’s just a sprain. In two weeks it will be all better. Don’t put too much stress on it.” She finishes the wrapand looks at me with concern. “What did you hit, darling? An iron pole?”
I let out a dry laugh. “Something like that.”
An hour later, I limp across my apartment to the desk where my backup camera sits untouched. I reach into my bra and pull out the SD card I stashed against my skin. Stupid son of a bitch.
The card he destroyed was the backup I’d swapped in an hour before the kidnapping. The real evidence - the shots of the senator and the rep - had been safe in my cleavage the whole time. I can’t help it. A manic laugh rips out of me, echoing in the quiet room. He destroyed the wrong card.
“The bastard,” I mutter, checking the files. Everything’s here. Perfect.
He’s met a formidable Match.
I set up my ring light, change into my black lace set, and pull on my wig. Time to recoup my losses. I log in as “Ayame” and the viewer count begins its rapid climb.
“Hey everyone,” I say, slipping into my breathy, online persona. “How’s everyone tonight?”
The chat blurs with concern.
You look stressed. Who do we need to fight?
