Page 40

ALSO BY ELLA JACOBS

Excerpt from In His Cage

Money is power; power is danger.

Stay away from rich men.

Aleksandr Pletnev was supposed to be the man who made my dreams come true.

Instead, he kidnaps me and locks me in a cage of gold.

Now I exist under his brutal command, trapped and at his mercy.

My captor will do just about anything to assert his ownership and break me into acceptance.

But it’s not the whippings or degradations that break me.

It’s when his darkness gives way to tender gentleness.

I fight with everything I have, but he keeps insisting that I need the stability of his command, and soon I don’t know if I’m losing or finding myself.

***

“Keep walking,” a deep voice commands, all too calmly.

I want to turn my head—see who’s got the nerve to grab me and press a knife to my back in broad daylight.

But I can’t.

Fear has me paralyzed, unable to think or act.

My legs are the only thing working, and only because they have to.

All I can see from the corner of my eye is his left side—white and black clothes, tall and broad frame.

He’s so tall his face is hidden way above my head where I don’t dare cast my eyes up.

His fingers are large enough to encompass my upper arm in an unbreakable grip.

It’s not forceful, but the potential strength is palpable.

He could easily snap my bones.

Icy shivers skate down my skin, and my legs quiver, threatening to give in.

But fear is not the only thing churning in my stomach.

There’s this feeling of powerlessness that tugs at something deep inside me—some magnetic pull, against all rationality, that flutters and sends heat coursing through my veins.

It’s his presence.

It looms over me like a great building casting its shadow over several blocks, calm and powerful.

Commanding in a most masculine way that speaks to my feminine soul and keeps my heart from speeding too fast.

It’s like the unwavering stability steadies me through the fear that wreaks havoc on my insides.

Fuck.

I must be sick.

There’s nothing alluring about a stranger who presses a knife to my back, possibly kidnapping me.

The blood drains from my face and bile rises in my throat.

Is that what’s happening?

He’s kidnapping me?

I’m going to be sick at any moment.

The telltale stomach cramps have already set in.

“That’s it,” the man says, voice slow and deep—praising?

“Keep going. Straight ahead.” It’s almost like he senses the oncoming nausea.

Like he’s trying to reduce the immediate threat with soothing words.

It’s ridiculous.

I know there’s nothing safe about those words.

They’re a twisted illusion.

Yet my stomach settles.

He guides me through the exit and onto the raised parking lot on a large platform.

I hear a train pull in below us, screeching on the tracks as it comes to a halt.

A woman walks past us with hastened steps—maybe to catch said train—and she doesn’t even spare us a glance.

I want to reach out and tug at her, scream for help.

But I don’t dare.

And as the man behind me moves us across the platform, toward the stairs at the corner, help slips out of reach.

I know what’s down there beneath the long set of stairs.

Nothing.

The stairs lead to the secluded side of the station, where people only come when the parking space up here is full.

And it sure isn’t today.

The shaking spreads through my body, and I start staggering.

I abruptly halt at the edge of the stairs and stare down the immense amount of steps.

“I can’t,” I croak.

Somehow, it seems worse falling down all those steps than being dragged away by this stranger.

“I’ll fall.”

“ Dershu tebya . I won’t let you fall.” As if to prove his point, he tightens his grip on my arm.

It’s like déjà vu—the steadying hand and deep voice.

That’s when it hits me.

The man on the train.

White and black.

His suit.

I turn my head and stare straight up into chilly blue eyes.

Cold as a block of ice, yet warm with the promise he just made.

It doesn’t make sense—not the dichotomy in his eyes, not the kidnapping .

I’m so stunned my fear fades for a moment, making my feet move on autopilot as he nudges me.

Fresh notes of citrus and something masculine waft past my nose as I move my feet onto the first step, and I inadvertently inhale a deep whiff of the intoxicating scent.

His scent.

“One step at a time. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

He must be mocking me for my unsteady feet—or maybe my fall on the platform earlier.

But I find no ridicule in his words.

They are smooth and warm.

Tender even.

Maybe he actually means it?

It can’t be.

How can someone be tender while holding a knife to my back?

My brain fogs over with all the questions and contradictions.

Yet somehow, I manage to zero in on the task of placing one foot on each step—a task that seems more like climbing a mountain than a simple everyday action.

I barely notice that the sharp tip at my back disappears and a flat palm presses against my waist instead.

Supporting me?

It takes forever to descend those stairs, and when I finally have both feet back on solid ground, it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts.

Before I can think of running, the knife is back against my skin.

The man leads me to the dusty parking lot in front of the rails, where a single large SUV is parked in the shadow of the platform.

My skin stings beneath the tip of the knife, but the pain is nothing compared to the one bearing down on my chest.

I can barely breathe through it, and my inhales become more and more ragged as we approach the car.

The faint noise of traffic hums in the distance, but it’s so low I barely notice it.

My wheezing breath and the crunch of shoes on gravel seem to be the only sounds around us.

Stopping by the SUV, the man opens the back door, and I see the silhouette of another man in the driver’s seat.

The driver is large and bulky, like one of those men you see pulling a truck on TV.

Heavy blocks of ice settle in my stomach.

I can’t get into that car.

When I’m in, there’s no out.

I know it like I know sunsets leave darkness, heavy clouds bring rain.

And like the weather, I see no stopping this.

Yet my mind scrambles to work something out.

Should I fight?

Scream?

Is it worth risking a knife in my back?

Indecision pounds in my head, dragging on in a single second that seems to last forever.

Then the last question becomes void as the knife hits the ground with a metallic sound.

The sharp tip is gone, and I know what I have to do.

There’s no way I’m getting into that car .

With a forceful yank of my arm, I open my mouth to scream.

But I’m too slow.

Before the shrill sound can ring out into the open space, a large hand clamps over my mouth.

“Don’t even think about it.” The words are a low snarl, and for a moment, I think it’s someone else—maybe the man in the car who has come out.

It can’t be the same voice as the one crooning in my ear moments ago.

“The knife was just a means to keep you calm. But down here, I’m not beyond using force.”

It’s the same man.

The citrusy scent from before wafts past my nose again, and the other man is still in the driver’s seat.

There’s no one else here.

The man snarling in my ear is the same one who pressed a supportive hand against my waist and promised he wouldn’t let me fall.

Maintaining the punishing grip on my bicep, he removes his palm from my mouth, and what little courage I had gathered fades fast.

There’s a rustle of clothes—a hand digging into a pocket.

The seconds stretch on, and I don’t understand why he doesn’t shove me into the vehicle.

Something new drops to the ground.

Plastic?

I glance down, and yes, there on the gravel lies a small, oblong plastic cap, and somehow, that lid is more terrifying than the knife beside it.

The man pulls down my arm, stretching my shoulder.

And then I feel it.

The most terrifying thing of all.

A small prick, then an aching pressure as liquid seeps into my muscle.

I whimper—a small, weak sound.

My body slackens as my strength seeps out with frightening speed.

My limbs go numb, and my knees give in.

I collapse.

As the man promised, he catches me.

Strong arms easily support my weight, holding me against a hard chest.

Using my last sliver of strength, I crane my neck and gaze up into a set of blue eyes boring into my very soul.

I don’t recognize the features around them, but I recognize the intensity of those eyes.

It is him.

Aleksandr Pletnev.

“It’s you...” My voice fades before I can say more.

“You’re mine now.” His lips tip up into a wide, charming smile—the smile I so badly wanted on the train.

Now, he finally aims it at me, and it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

The last thing I see before my world goes black.