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The psycho’s grin widened as he slipped the sharp edge of the blade under the cable ties. He didn’t reply, just pulled the blade through the thick plastic like it was cutting through butter. Jeez, those things must be sharp.

“On second thoughts, call me whatever you like,” I mumbled. Was probably wise to keep the psychopath on side, right?

He cut through the other cable tie and then knelt slowly at my feet, his eyes maintaining unrelenting contact. I gripped the arms of the chair, unsure as to whether I was about to lose a limb or something. This guy made me nervous. No, beyond nervous. This guy terrified me.

There was an audiblesnickas he cut through the ties around my ankles, and I felt blessed relief as I stretched my legs. It was painful at first, but the extreme pins and needles thankfully drifted away as I wriggled my limbs.

“Would you like something to eat?” Byron said as I stood shakily from my chair.

I felt the colour drain from my face as I watched the guy lick his lips. “Um, no thank you.”

Acheron laughed and swatted Byron in the chest. “Stop teasing the poor guy. We have actual food upstairs, sugar. I promise there are no body parts in the freezer. Come on, I’ll take you.”

Thank God. For a moment there, I thought the absolute worst.

***

Delightful smells of tomatoes and garlic assaulted my senses as Acheron led me to the kitchen. My stomach rumbled loudly as I stepped across the threshold, but my feet halted when I saw who was cooking.

Damyr stood in front of the hob, frilly apron tied around his waist, stirring sauce in a pan. I couldn’t quite reconcile this image of domesticity with the seductive mobster I’d interacted with in his basement. Turns out, I wasn’t in the middle of the Baltic Sea but an ordinary basement beneath the Morozov Mansion. I was almost disappointed with how cliché that was, but I decided to count my blessings instead and be grateful for the fact I was still on solid ground in a city I knew well.

“Is he cooking?” I heard Acheron whisper behind me.

“Yes,” Byron whispered back. “Weird.”

I turned around to comment, but found they’d both vanished, leaving me alone with the mobster boss. How the fuck did those two manage to move so silently? But I suppose it was a useful skill in the criminal underworld, to be able to manoeuvre undetected. I was definitely not stealthy. I think that’s what ultimately led me to medicine, so that I could patch myself up when I needed to because I was so damn clumsy.

“Sit,” Damyr commanded, that low tone brooking no argument. He didn’t even look at me, the asshole.

I folded my arms across my chest. “You could ask nicely.”

I swear I could hear his teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw. He turned to face me, and I was hit again by how gorgeous this guy was, but nope, I wasn’t going to think that.

He’d kidnapped me.

He’d kidnapped my cat.

He’d tied me to a chair.

But… he was cooking for me. Did that cancel out some of the bad?

Guess it depended on how good the food was.

“Benjamin, sit. Please.” The guy looked like he’d chewed glass as he said that last word and it almost drew a laugh from me. This guy was something else.

I sat in one of the bar stools on the island and looked around the room. There were large, arched windows that looked out onto the garden. It was still dark out so I couldn’t have been gone that long. Unless I’d somehow lost a whole day, but I didn’t think I had. The moonlight streamed into the kitchen through the windows, framed by heavy thick black curtains. All the appliances in the kitchen looked brand new, like they were either really well looked after or hardly ever used.

“Do you cook much?” I ventured.

“No.”

I waited for him to continue but he gave me nothing.

“I like cooking,” I offered. “I would always cook with my Nan on Sundays but I don’t really have the time anymore. Well, I might now that asshole got me fired.” I supposed I would have more free time. Perhaps I could get that Caribbean recipe book Maya was always raving about. It would be good to try something new.

“You were fired?” Damyr asked with a frown. “That wasn’t in your file.”

“My file?”