Page 1 of Shutter and Sin
Chapter 1
Zoya
Iblink, the world coming into focus in jagged, painful stabs of light. I try to move my hand but notice my wrist are tied to an awfully familiar chair. The ropes around my wrists and ankles bite deeper every time I try to move, and the dull, rhythmic throb in my skull makes the tick of the clock somewhere in the dark sound like bliss. There’s a metallic tang on my tongue that feels eerily familiar. And the stagnant heat, makes my shirt stick to my body as sweat soaks the fabric.
Fuck, I realize I’ve been kidnapped. Again. Since I walked into Pravda a few months ago for an underpaying reporting gig, I’ve been snatched by more gangs than I have fingers. You’d think I’d be used to it by now – and in a way, I am – but that doesn’t make the taste of cheap chloroform any more pleasant.
The air reeks of burnt oil and petroleum, a thick sludge coats the back of my throat. Something moves at the corner of the room. I lean forward, swallowing a groan and feeling a migraine hovering. Massive, hulking machines loom the walls like prehistoric beasts, surrounded by rusted scaffolding and heavy chains dangling from brown hooks.
It’s an abandoned factory I notice.
The flickering fluorescent lights overhead hum with a sickly glow that only makes my headache worse. I try to piece the scampering details together. I was snatched at the hotel. I was crouched near the bushes, triple-checking my camera after snagging shots of the senator and the house representative. The sun was returning home, its dark orange lining the skies. But it got much darker and it had nothing to do with the clouds.
I felt it before I saw it. The hand clamping over my mouth before I could even draw breath to scream. The chemical-sweet sting of the rag. The silhouette. And then…nothing.
Shit.
I test the ropes one more time, but they don’t budge. Heavy footsteps crunch on the grit behind me, and with it comes shallow breaths. Before I can twist around, a hand fists in my hair sharply, yanking my head back. My head jerks up towards the ceiling, my scalp screaming desperately. He comes into my line of vision – weathered, ugly and perfectly positioned to block out the light. His crooked nose angles along with his head as he stares down at me.
I take in the deep purple bruise blooming across his jaw – the evidence of a man who lives for a fight. A slight smile that looked more like a grimace flickers across his features before he leans away again, his fist still gripping my hair.
“Here, boss,” he grunts. “This is the little rat we caught lurking around the hotel vents.” His voice is exactly like his face – rough and mean.
“Who the hell are you?” The words rip out of me, fueled by pure irritation. It’s not smart, but my head hurts and this asshole is pulling my hair like I ran away with his money. “And what on earth is this?”
His smile – if it can be called that – grows a little more sinister, just as another set of footsteps approaches. I can’t see him yet with the ogre holding me in place. The pain in my scalp rips another muffled groan from me.
“This is illegal!” I growl. “You think I won’t call the cops?”
A low smooth chuckle echoes through the room, sending heat up my cheeks. A stark contrast to the guy who now feels like his underling. I crane my neck, desperate to catch sight of him. As he steps into the light, Mr. purple bruise finally lets go, lettingmy head drop forward. I let out a wince, my tongue sticking to my jaw, before I look up, blinking.
Dark hair and warm honey brown eyes and tattoos come into my line of vision. I follow the dark intricate inked chains that wind up his hands. A tiny scar is nestled near the corner of his lip, and lashes long enough to make most women jealous frame his eyes. He wears an expensive tailored suit, the wool settling perfectly on his build.
He doesn’t move close to his underling. Instead, he stands a few feet away, studying me with a piercing look.
Shit. He’s gorgeous.
No.
Focus, Zoya!
I shake my head as if to dispel the thought. “Who…who are you?” My voice quivers. I try to take it back, to try again. But it is too late. I hate myself for it.
“You don’t know who I am,” he started, his voice filling the room. “But your little legs and camera found the way to my establishment. Troubles like this costs me business, Zoya. You realize that, don’t you?”
He knows my name. Of course, he does.
“I …”
“I have a question for you.”
He bends slightly, bringing himself closer to my level. This is when I realize there are others in the room, because one of his men steps forward and hands him something.
I take in a deep breath when I see it – my professional camera. Needing to play this cool, I allow myself huff. “So you found me trying to earn a living. What of it?”
He doesn’t seem to be ruffled, not even one bit, as he scrolls through his camera. His eyes scan the screen as he flips through the images of the senator and the house rep. After what feels likean eternity, he takes in a deep breath. “You’re the one sneaking shots of the senator and the house rep at that hotel, aren’t you?”
“What do you want?” I ask in the most care free tone I can muster, considering my situation. “If it’s the photos, they didn’t even come out well. Plus, I only got 700 rubles, so it wasn’t even worth it. Now, let me go.”
