RYLIE

At this point, I think I might start getting used to waking up with a headache.

I groan as I sit up, one hand touching my forehead in an attempt to stop the constant pounding. Sunlight streams in through that large pane of glass that serves as a window, increasing the headache when I blink it in all at once.

With it comes memory: the alley, the men, the murder, the kidnap. The man with the silver hair and the smiling face. What was his name again? Mort? Marty? Marco…?

My mouth parts slightly when the name finally hits me. Marcus. Velmont.

As in, the Velmonts, the ruthless, mafia family of the city’s crime world. There’s no doubt about it. How the hell did I even miss something like that?

Now, I’m properly scared.

I push myself up, wincing as my back cracks from being in one position for too long. I must’ve cried myself to sleep on the floor because my eyes feel heavy and puffy. I probably look like a nightmare. After all, that’s what all of this is. One big, fucking nightmare.

I glance round the place once more. It looks much better in daylight, like one of those rooms in design magazines. Big white bed, big plush carpet, lights and lush cushions. My comfortable, little prison, built by the Velmonts.

I’ve only ever heard the name thrice; two of those times had been at the same bar I had been to last night. It’s one of the few ‘evils’ they don’t like to talk about; you can tell by how quick they changed the conversation when the name came up. I had asked the bartender, Malcolm, about the Velmonts afterwards, but he just gave me a sharp, warning look in reply.

The third time had been from Thomas, and he had mentioned it in passing, while we lay in his studio apartment. He hadn’t mentioned the name again, and I didn’t blame him. After all, he was telling me about his friend who had disappeared after trying to run away with their money. He never heard from him again.

That taught me something. People seem afraid of the mafia, the average type of fear that comes when you’re talking about drug-dealing men with drugs. But the Velmonts? People seem TERRIFIED of them.

And now, I’m in their clutches. Oh, dear God.

I push myself upright, taking rapid breaths to calm myself as my heart starts to hammer fast. I can still see the man they murdered in that alley, I can still hear his pleading voice. I can see his murderer turning to stare at me with glowing eyes, and Marcus grinning at me, flashing a set of thin, sharp fangs.

‘Stay calm, stay calm, Rylie…’

I practice my breathing drills, counting down until my heart beat slows.

‘You can do this. One step at a time…’

I nod, pushing myself up onto my feet. I just have to survive the morning, that’s all. After all, the Marcus guy didn’t try to harm me. No, after properly turning me on and introducing himself, he just asked if I wanted dinner. When I refused, he told me to take a bath. And he left without another word.

I hold up a hand to wipe my cheek, catching a faint scent of my armpits. Yep, I don’t smell so good. Maybe I can choke them out with how bad I smell right now. The thought amuses me, but also makes me curious enough to enter the bathroom.

For a few seconds, I just stand there, looking across the place. The bathroom is fucking large, one of those ones on TV or in a magazine, or something. White marble floors that sparkle with the lights, a glass shower big enough for a small party, a bathtub I could probably swim in.

“Amazing,” I hear myself whisper as I walk in.

I pause by the mirror, and I almost jump back when I see my reflection. My mascara is smeared down my cheeks, possibly by the tears last night. My hair is a red mess, like a bird’s nest was blown by a violent breeze.

“Pathetic.”

Quietly, I undress and step into the shower. I scrub myself clean under the steaming hot water, trying to focus on the sound of the shower above me.

But my thoughts keep wandering. What happens now? What would they want with me? Is this my last morning alive? What if one of them walks in and-

I tilt my head back, letting the hot spray run through my hair. The sound of rushing water muffles everything else…except the memory of Marcus’ face leaning in on mine.

I press my palms against the tiles, shutting my eyes. This is NOT happening. But it is. The memory slides through me, like the hot water above me. I drag my fingers down my throat, where his touch had been.

My body betrays me, reacting before I can think. Heat pools in my stomach, dripping down to my legs. I curse under my breath and turn off the shower. This is not happening, nope.

I step out of the shower like there’s someone after me, and that’s when I realize there’s no towel in sight. I step out of the bathroom, hugging my bare breasts as I head for the closet, hoping a towel would be there...

That’s when I see a man standing by the window.

A sharp gasp leaves my lips as I dash back into the bathroom, almost slipping on the tiles in the process.

What the hell? I hadn’t glimpsed enough of him to be sure, but that didn’t look like Marcus. Regardless, what the hell is he doing there? How did he even get in without my notice?

My heart thunders loudly in my ears when I peek out of the door. Yeah, he’s still there: a man in a black suit, his hands clasped behind him. The curtains have been drawn over the window, but it’s almost as if he’s staring through them, or he’s just doing anything to avoid looking at me.

“There’s a towel on the bed for you,” he says suddenly.

I shift my glance to the bed. Sure enough, there’s a large blue towel, folded neatly and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“W-what do you w-want?”

He replies, “At the moment? I want you to be dressed.”