Page 10 of Captured Obsession

It's never been clearer to me that besides my father and friends, there is no special person or place waiting for my return. And it hurts me to admit that though Nikolai doesn't know me, he was right about one thing. I am but just a lost little girl.

Hours later,a soft knock comes on the door. I'm quick to jump out of bed and race toward the windows to close them and shut the curtains. I finish just before the door swings open.

I expect it to be Agata, so my body tenses the moment Nikolai’s six-feet-seven frame takes up the space in the room. He carries four bags with brand names that I recognize. And his other hand holds a container of what appears to be food.

My eyebrows knit together as the smell of soy sauce permeates the air.

He silently places the food on the side table, and I step back, putting space between us as he places the bags of clothing at the end of the bed. Then he takes a seat in the green velvet chair in the corner of the room, where I found him the first time I woke.

He arches an eyebrow, as if to suggest it’s my move.

I take a seat at the edge of the bed and curiously open up the boxed meal. I'm surprised to see my favorite treat of combination noodles. I refrain as much as possible from having carbs, but this dish has always been my guilty little pleasure.

I close the lid, trying to act indifferent to it, yet again being shown how much this man knows about me. It’s unsettling.

I look back at him, and his gaze flicks expectantly to the bags of clothing.

“These clothes should do you for a few days. When you're feeling more agreeable, we can purchase you more. I'm sure you'll find my choices similar to what you might ordinarily wear.”

I quietly nod, waiting for him to leave. I don't appreciate being stuck in the same dress for three days, so I'm grateful that I'll have new clothes to wear. However, I certainly wasn’t expecting brand names.

When I realize he's not leaving, I grow more uncomfortable, and it would appear he does as well. A heavy tension hangs in the air.

He clears his throat. “I really need you to eat. What can I do that will ease you enough to eat?”

I swallow hard, unsure what to think of this man. He’s ruthless and menacing, but besides his obvious attempts at intimidation, he’s been very accommodating where I’m concerned, which only makes his motives more unnerving.

“I want to talk to my friends.” The words spill from my lips. “Or my father. I want to let them know I'm safe. People will be wondering where I've gone.” It sounds silly even to me, given that I'm demanding from my captor the one thing he's most likely unable to give me.

He considers this for a moment, and I can’t read his expression. I expect him to say no, but instead he says, “It will take some time for them to wonder where you've gone. Unfortunately for you, your social media presence works against you.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and walks across the room. Tapping the screen a few times, he then turns it toward me. “Because right now it still looks like you're having the time of your life in London.”

My eyes grow wide as he shows me my account flooded with photos from the last few days of places and activities I never attended. He then shows me my stories, ironically of things I would usually share. A photo of a half-eaten meal. Shout-outs to brands that send me samples.

He lets me take the phone, and I furiously scroll through them, shocked. Is it truly that easy to pretend to be me? To fake that I’m perfectly fine, and not being held by crazy Russians? Or is it a slap in the face to realize I've become so predictable, and that my life only amounts to this, shown through a filter.

It’s as if everything has come crashing downaround me. Then my gaze narrows on the screen before I shoot him an incredulous look.

“Do you seriously follow me on social media?”

He shrugs as he takes the phone from my hands, almost prying it from my tightened grip. “I’m just one amongst millions. Unfortunately for you, that makes stalking a lot easier these days. I followed you, studied you, online and in person, for three months.”

Three months?Goose bumps rise on my skin, but I try my hardest to nonchalantly shrug it off. I hate how he says it as if he’s scolding me.

“You're nothing special. You're not the first stalker I’ve had,” I bite out. However, he’s by far been the worst.

“I'm aware. James Lukar. Michael Smith. Drake Meer.” He lists three names, and my stomach stinks.

“How do you know those names?” Those are all former stalkers who I took out restraining orders on.

“It was my job to know everything about you so I could make you mine,” he says factually. A liquid warmth spreads between my legs, and I divert my gaze from his, ashamed by the way my body reacts to that declaration. I really am losing my mind. I shouldn't find it attractive in any way when he says things like that, especially when it's not really about me but the paycheck he most likely gets at the end of this.

Then he casually says, “You won't have to worry about them anymore.”

My mouth goes dry as I ask, “What do you mean by that?”

“I doubt you want the specifics.” He steps closer and lifts his hand slowly, cautiously. I gasp when he rubs his thumb against my bottom lip, as if mesmerized. “People often want what they can't have. Let's just say those men will never be a threat to you again.”

I find myself entranced by his forest-green eyes, which are so bright compared to the harsh features of his face and the tattoos that skate up his neck. I’ve yet to get a good look at those tattoos, but I still believe they’re of snakes. I wonder what else is beneath the tight black shirt. Is he completely covered in ink?