Stolen Jewel by Alexis Abbott
Jewel
Ihave never been so afraid in my life. Ever since I first woke up to find myself handcuffed to a rudimentary cot in a place I don’t recognize at all, my adrenaline levels have been at peak capacity. Every cell in my body is on high alert, like someone tripped an alarm somewhere in my brain. I’m sitting on the bed, soaked in paranoia. The walls here seem pretty well-insulated, but still, I keep hearing things. Distant thumps and creaks through the building, the occasional bird call or blustery wind outside. Every noise makes me jump. I stare bug-eyed at the door, waiting with mingled dread and anticipation for it to swing open again. I ricochet between being terrified that my captor will come back, and terrified that he won’t come back.
I can’t figure out which one is worse.
My mind runs wild with frightening potentials. What if he leaves me to rot in this room? What if he has more nefarious plans for me? What if he’s right, and my father is the only one who can save me? If that’s the case, I might as well die here. These fears cycle through my head again and again. I roulette from one terrifying idea to the next, all the while desperate to corral my thoughts into something actually useful.
After all, I’m not a fool. I’m a clever, resourceful woman who just survived my cutthroat law exams. I should be figuring out how to get out of here. I should be putting my academic brain to use. But it’s hard to take action when everything feels so hopeless. My stomach is churning and won’t settle. My hands have been trembling the whole time, especially my right arm latched to the metal headboard of the cot. I reach over and rub comforting circles on my aching, bruised wrist. I wince in pain, having just realized how deep the bruise goes. I must have strained against my bindings in my sleep. Not that there is much sleep to be had down here.
My heart is pounding like it’s about to burst out of my chest and fly away. Like a panicked bird fighting to break free of my ribcage. I feel a bit like a bird myself right now, trapped in this musty, decrepit room. There’s nothing here to look at, apart from the cot and a toilet just barely close enough to the bed for me to use it. There’s a single toilet roll on the back of the commode, and a few cloth napkins folded at the foot of the cot. I imagine I was supposed to use those along with the plate of breakfast my captor brought me, but I hardly touched it. I mean, this guy did use some kind of chemical to knock me out and kidnap me, so I don’t exactly trust him not to poison my food.
Still, I know I’ll eventually have to eat if he keeps me here long enough. I don’t want to think about this as a long-term situation, but maybe I’ll have to.
It’s difficult to tell exactly how much time has passed since I was so cruelly ripped from my life and dumped here. There’s no clock on the four walls of the cell, and I can only assume my charming kidnapper must have confiscated my phone along with everything else in my purse. The only means of measuring time I have is the amount of light coming in through that high-up, narrow window. For a woman who’s used to being attached to my cell phone twenty-four-seven, it feels like an even sharper blow to be without it.
I’m the kind of person who repeatedly checks the time, the weather, the news, garnering every bit of helpful information I can gather in the palm of my hand. I’m accustomed to being able to check every time zone, just because I want to. But now, all time feels the same. Without a digital number to go by, minutes feel as long and agonizing as the hours. Shadows move on the walls. Light trickles in and fades away. It’s maddening to just sit here while the world turns without me. I have done everything I can think of to keep myself from going totally insane.
I replay the events of the other night at the club. I remember wanting so badly to escape the crowds, the loud music, the obligation to my friends. Now, I feel foolish for longing to be alone. What I wouldn’t give for a vapid, mostly one-sided conversation with Gina right now! That feels more like my life, what I expect.
But this?
Being kidnapped and held hostage by a massive, intimidating (but oddly handsome) stranger with a faint Russian accent? This is not my world. This is not what I ever thought could happen to me. Sure, I know my father doesn’t have the cleanest hands. He’s a man of great power and influence, and I’m not naive enough to think he’s above corruption. In fact, he’s always made it very clear that the best way to climb the ladder of success is by stepping on the heads of everyone else in your way. But I never imagined he could be involved with something on this level. I wonder what he did to my captor’s friends, and if it’s a fair trade for whatever is about to happen to me. I wonder if my dad would even feel remorse. Would he change his ways to get me safely home?
The lurch in my stomach tells me… probably not.
I wish I remembered more of how I got here. Maybe then I’d have some idea how far from home I really am. But I recall nothing after being grabbed from behind and forced into darkness. I woke up to find that man standing in the doorway with a plate of food, watching me sleep. A shiver runs down my spine as I sit in the dark and play back that moment again and again. I see his bulging muscles, his enormous height, his cold, dark eyes, and unfeeling expression. I hate that I feel drawn to him as much as I fear him. Is this an early inkling of Stockholm Syndrome? Am I so weak-hearted that one plate of eggs could make me empathize with my own kidnapper?
“No,” I murmur aloud.
My voice sounds rough from lack of use. And crying. I glance up toward the narrow window to see the pale first tendrils of dawn peeking through. Morning is coming. And with that, perhaps another visit from my captor. My heart flutters at the thought of him coming back. What if this time, instead of breakfast, he brings a weapon? I have to get out of here before then. I look around the room again, wracking my brain for an answer. With my arm still cuffed to the headboard, I slowly twist myself around and slide off the side of the cot. My toes curl when they touch the cold floor. I lean as hard as I can into the metal frame of the cot.
“Please be quiet,” I mutter.
The metal legs scrape on the dusty floorboards and I wince. I hold my breath and listen for any retaliatory sounds. My heart pounds in my ears, but I don’t hear any footsteps or voices. I push against the cot again, this time sliding it a couple feet closer to the side wall.
“Almost there,” I whisper.
Using all my strength, I shove the headboard flush against the wall. I climb onto the bed and wrap my hands around the metal prongs of the headboard. I take a deep breath and start banging the headboard into the wall as hard as I can. I pound my fist against the wall. I cry out with my face pushed into the dusty wallpaper, begging for some neighbor to overhear me.
“Help! Help me!” I yell, punctuating my words with thumps against the wall.
I know I only have a short window of time to do this before my captor hears me. It’s a major risk, but I have to try. I can’t stay here a moment longer in limbo. Whatever happens, at least it’ll be a change from waiting for nothing in the dark.
“Please! Somebody help!” I cry out, pounding my fist against the wall while I use my cuffed hand to slam the headboard. The wall rattles. I feel blood gathering under my skin as my hands bruise, but I don’t stop. Not even when I hear the telltale thump-thump-thump of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I scream louder.
There’s a momentary rattle of keys, and then the door bursts open with a bang. I fall down on the cot and flip around to look as this absolute mountain of a man steps into the room. My heart skips when I see the pure rage in his dark brown eyes, his hands curling into big fists at his sides as he approaches me. I shrink back, but I keep my eyes locked on him. I wear a defiant look on my face even as frightened tears sting in my eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” my captor bellows.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m calling for help! And somebody had to hear me out there. Somebody’s probably calling the cops on you right now!” I shout back.
“Who? Who is coming to save you?” he growls coldly. “There’s nobody around for miles, malyshka. No neighbors. No one to hear you scream.”
Hot, angry tears burn down my cheeks. “There has to be someone,” I choke out.
“The only people you’re likely to attract out here with all this racket are people way worse than me,” he snaps. “The wrong kind of people.”
“Hard to imagine anyone worse than a man who kidnapped me and handcuffed me to a shitty bed,” I retort fiercely.
“Then count yourself lucky you haven’t encountered them yet,” he snarls, taking another aggressive step closer.
“How can I possibly believe you? How can I trust a word you say?” I shoot back.
He heaves a sigh and shakes his head slowly, looming over me. I feel instantly smaller, delicate and diminutive compared to his hulking size and presence. His large, calloused hand reaches out and I flinch away, thinking he’s about to hit me. But instead, he wraps his fingers around the metal headboard and yanks it back a few feet. What took me several full-body pushes he’s able to undo with one hand. My eyes go wide and my heart stumbles over a beat as I realize, once again, how formidable he is. How much stronger he is than me. If he could move the cot with me on it so easily, what could those powerful hands do to my body? It both terrifies and thrills me to think about.
“I warned you before: my colleagues are not as forgiving as me. When I say this-- all of this-- is for your own good, I mean it. I know you’re afraid. You’re desperate. You want to fight back, even if it’s just to feel like you’re doing something,” he says in a low voice.
I bite my lip to staunch the tears from falling. I hate that he’s right.
He softens his voice and bends down slightly to look me in the eyes.
“Listen to me, Jewel. It will be much easier if you cooperate with me,” he asserts.
“Cooperation is a two-way street,” I reply, after gathering my courage.
He narrows his dark eyes at me and gestures to the bed, the handcuffs, the holding cell itself. “And what leverage do you have?” he growls.
I hold my head up high and poke out my chin defiantly. It’s time to tap into my lawyer mode. I need an argument, even a weak one.
“Well, even if nobody can hear me scream out there, you can still hear me. If we’re stuck here together, that means you can’t leave. And that means you have to listen to me scream. I bet that will get old pretty quickly,” I threaten.
I see a flicker of something akin to a smile pass over his face, and then he glowers at me like before. “I’m not going to let you go,” he says firmly.
“You could at least take off this stupid handcuff,” I argue.
He scoffs. “Hell no. I’ll put a gag in your mouth before I do that.”
“A gag won’t stop me. I’ll just push the bed and bang on the wall again,” I point out.
“Maybe I should handcuff your other arm. Your ankles, too,” he warns.
“Well, then, have fun cleaning up after me when I can’t reach that toilet,” I remind him.
“Something tells me you would be even more uncomfortable with that than I am,” he reasons. He folds his arms over his chest and fixes me with a cold stare.
Damn it. He’s right. I don’t even like to go more than a day without a shower back in my regular life. But I can’t give up just because he’s backed me into a corner. The longer I keep him here, the more likely he is to listen to me. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Okay, fine. Handcuffs are non-negotiable for you. Got it,” I sigh. “But what about this awful cot? This mattress has to be older than I am. And only one lumpy pillow? Who can sleep like this? I’m going to be up all night, every night, just thinking of ways to escape. You have to fall asleep sometime, you know, and I bet your bed is a lot more conducive to sleep than mine.”
“What are you bargaining for, memory foam?” he scoffs.
“I’m just saying, if there really is nobody around to save me, why do you need to keep me down here in the dark? At least give me some scenery to look at,” I contend.
“I had a feeling you would be a spoiled brat,” he hisses.
I glare at him. “Well, I’m sorry for being a high-maintenance prisoner.”
He stares at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. His eyes bore into my very soul as he looks me up and down. Sizing me up like a wolf regarding his prey.
“Fine. You want a change of scenery? How about this,” he grunts.
In one quick step, he closes the space and grabs one of the cloth napkins at the foot of the bed. I yelp and cower away from him, curling up in a ball. But he easily unravels me. He grabs my free hand and pins it behind me to the headboard, my arm aching with the strain.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I mutter as he deftly wraps the napkin around my head, covering my eyes.
My heart sinks. Is he really going to leave me like this? But no sooner has that thought occurred to me than I hear the rustle of keys. I feel him fiddle with the handcuff. There’s a soft clank! and my arm drops to my side, free at last. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived. With my eyes still blindfolded, my captor scoops me to my feet. He wrenches both arms behind my back and prods me along in front of him, forcing my cramping legs to walk across the cold floor. I stumble blindly, but he holds me steady. My heart is racing.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“For a change of scenery and a better mattress,” he grunts. “Take the stairs.”
With his guidance, I wobble my way up the staircase. I try to use my remaining senses to figure out where I am, but it’s impossible to orient myself with my eyes covered and my hands pinned behind me. We walk across creaky floorboards, the air feeling warmer and less stagnant. I swear I can almost feel sunlight on my face as he prods me down what seems to be a long hallway. He stops me and opens a door, then pushes me inside.
“Where am I?” I murmur.
“The bedroom,” he replies.
I complain, “Can’t I at least see where--”
But he quickly whips off the blindfold. Bright, warm light beams into my eyes as I blink. The world comes slowly into focus as I look around, drinking in my surroundings. It’s a very simple room, but compared to the basement, it’s a feast for my eyes. There’s a queen-sized bed with a thick mattress and a utilitarian wooden frame, a tall amber lamp in the corner, a threadbare rug on the floor, and a dusty mirror hanging on the wall next to a ticking clock. As I look around, I’m surprised to see my captor stalk out of the room, leaving me alone for a split second. I immediately glance at the window, but before I can fully form a coherent thought about escaping somehow, he returns. But he’s not empty-handed.
He’s pushing a couch through the doorway as easily as though it’s a sack of feathers. I look at him sideways, trying to make sense of it.
“What’s this about?” I pipe up.
Satisfied with the position of his couch, he strides over to me and grabs my arm. He all but drags me to the bed and throws me onto it. I bounce a little on the springy, soft mattress as he pulls me to the headboard. He pulls out the handcuffs from his back pocket. My heart sinks as he clinks it around my left arm this time, and connects it to one of the wooden spokes of the headboard. Once it’s locked, he tucks the key in his pocket and steps back.
“How do you like your upgrade, madame?” he grumbles.
“Well, the bed’s much nicer, but what is the couch for?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “I have to sleep somewhere.”
“Wait, so I’ve gone from having my own room to sharing one with you?” I exclaim.
“Would you rather us share the bed, too?” he threatens.
I hate that I feel a little twinge of something deep inside. I shove it down.
“Of course not,” I reply sharply. “But what about if I have to, you know, use the bathroom or something?”
“Then I’ll take you,” he answers.
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m starting to think this upgrade is anything but.”
“Well, take it or leave it,” he shrugs as he turns to walk out of the bedroom. “Don’t try anything stupid, malyshka.”
“What does that mean?” I mutter under my breath as he disappears through the doorway.
But he doesn’t come back, not for several hours, according to the clock on the wall. I spend the time lying around on the bed, taking in every detail of my new digs. It’s definitely more to look at, and infinitely more comfortable. It feels more like an actual bedroom than a cold, musty prison cell. However, I’m nervous about the idea of my kidnapper sleeping on that couch. He’ll be even closer to me now, able to catch me before I even think of pulling an escape run. What little privacy I had has evaporated along with it.
Still, I can’t help feeling like I won a small battle. Only two days into my captivity and I’ve already managed to barter for a better room. That has to count for something. So, I decide to settle in and catch up on some desperately-needed rest while I’m alone for a while. I lie back on the bed, close my eyes, and let the soft sounds of nature outside lull me to sleep.
I’m in and out of cozy consciousness for the bulk of the day. Every time I drift off, I have wild and vivid dreams. I wake up with a start, my wrist aching from being held in the same position in the handcuff. Each time, the room is a little darker. Every now and then, I can hear my captor walking or tinkering around in the rest of the house. He keeps the bedroom door shut, presumably so I can’t figure out the blueprint of the building, but the added privacy is appreciated during my naps. The last thing I want is to wake up and find him watching me sleep again. I still haven’t quite recovered from my first brutal awakening here.
By the end of the day, I lie on the bed watching the sunset paint the sky pink and gold through the single window. I watch the trees sway in the evening breeze. I really have to pee, but more than that, I am itching for a shower. My hair feels greasy and knotted around my head, and my body is coated in sweat and grime. I’ve been wearing nothing but my flimsy dress, and I feel positively grubby. Showers and baths have always been a favorite relaxation tool of mine. I fantasize about standing under hot water in a steamy shower stall and feeling the ick rinse off my body. I know there’s a bathroom somewhere around here.
When my captor finally returns to the bedroom at nightfall, I’m damn near excited to see him. I perk up and immediately shuffle to the edge of the bed. He looks just as intimidatingly handsome as always, but there’s an exhaustion to his movements. He must have been working on something today. Or maybe keeping me hostage is more taxing than I thought.
Good, I think sourly. If I have to suffer, so does he.
But for now, I give him a big, sheepish smile and he immediately knows I’m about to ask him for something. He sighs.
“What is it?” he prompts.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask, like he’s a hotel concierge and not a dangerous criminal.
“I’ll take you to pee, but I’m going to blindfold you first,” he says, whipping out the cloth napkin again as he walks over to me.
“Wait!” I blurt out. “I need more than that.”
He grimaces and I blush instantly.
“No, not that. I need a shower,” I emphasize.
“You look fine to me,” he reports.
I roll my eyes. “Maybe to you, but I feel gross. I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t get a shower first,” I leverage.
“You know, I have ways of keeping you quiet I haven’t used yet,” he says ominously.
But I stay strong. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to let me get cleaned up? Come on, it’s not like I’m going to escape through the plumbing or whatever,” I argue.
“Fine,” he grunts. He uncuffs me and wraps the blindfold around my eyes. “But I’m staying in the room with you to stand guard.”
“But I’ll be naked in there!” I balk.
“I won’t look,” he says.
“Sure you won’t,” I grumble as he scoops me off the bed and pulls my hands behind my back like before.
He guides me out the door and down a hall to what I assume is the next room over. When he flips on the light and pulls off my blindfold, he closes me in.
“Use the toilet. When you’re done, open the door,” he commands. “And before you even think about locking it, remember that I have a key for everything.”
“Ugh, understood,” I sigh. I quickly do my business and push the door open again.
He comes back, now with a green towel and some other linens draped over his arm. He turns the knobs for the shower and steps back, gesturing for me to go ahead.
“Well, turn around or close your eyes or something. I have to take my clothes off,” I say.
He begrudgingly turns away while I whip off my dress and hastily hop in the shower. I feel terribly vulnerable and exposed, but as soon as the hot water hits my skin, I’m awash in relief. I tilt my head back and let the water soak my face and hair. I sigh with pleasure and reach for the bar of soap to lather myself up. It feels so damn good, I can almost imagine I’m safe at home. Almost. But there’s a marked difference: I don’t usually have a gigantic, terrifying Russian man guarding me in the shower. I have to trust that he isn’t secretly ogling me every time I close my eyes. After a couple minutes, my curiosity gets the best of me.
Careful not to make a lot of noise, I peel back an inch of the shower curtain and peek out at him. To my surprise, I can see him reflected in the mirror and he’s still partially facing away, giving me the privacy I need. I look at him there, standing strong and silent. He’s fascinating to look at, with his chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. But he seems to sense me watching him, because suddenly his eyes flit to the mirror and he makes eye contact with me in the reflection.
I let out a little gasp of surprise and disappear behind the curtain again. My heart is hammering like crazy. It’s hard to sort out all the feelings going haywire in my mind. On the one hand, I feel spooked by his watchful gaze. But at the same time, his constant presence is oddly soothing. Like he’s guarding me from the dangers of the world beyond, the so-called “far worse” people he warned me about. Is he protecting me or imprisoning me?
Or both?
After my shower, he hands me the towel without looking. I dry off and step out of the shower, my dark hair fragrant and damp. I get goosebumps when my feet touch the cold tile, and he seems to notice. Instead of giving me back my grimy dress, he hands me an oversized flannel shirt and some plain black boxers that are almost too big to stay up. Still, it’s way cozier than what I had before, and I feel considerably more put-together as I curl up in bed, still handcuffed.
The nighttime settles in. Insects hum outside the window. Darkness falls across the bedroom, and my captor takes his place on the couch. I wait for a long time in silence for him to fall asleep, my own brain whirring a mile a minute. I listen to the minutes tick by and turn into hours. I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep myself. Once I’m pretty sure his rhythmic breathing indicates that he’s unconscious, I slowly move my free hand down my body. I know it’s probably not a smart idea, but there’s one surefire way I know to help me drift to sleep: touching myself. Over the years, dealing with the stress of my father’s expectations and the rigorous schedule of law school, I’ve counted on this to help me relax. Of course, I wish my captor wasn’t in the room. It’s certainly not the ideal circumstances for a masturbation sesh, but I’m desperate.
I slide my hand down between my legs, spreading my thighs apart. I suck in a tight breath as my fingertips brush over my mound through the thin fabric of the black boxers. My clit tingles. My body warms up as I slowly stroke myself under the sheets. My toes curl and I close my eyes as the sensation intensifies. I rock against my own hand in the darkness, letting the delicious spirals of pleasure take over. I work up the courage to slip my hand underneath the waistband of the boxers. My fingers trace soft, warming circles around my sensitive clit. A soft moan escapes my lips as I get closer and closer to coming. But then, I remember with a jolt that I’m supposed to be totally silent. I’m not alone.
I open my eyes and look over at the couch. To my horror, I can see the faintest lick of moonlight reflect from a pair of dark, watchful eyes. I know I should stop. I know I should look away. But I’m so close to release, and I need it so badly. My fingers keep working on autopilot even as my heart pounds with adrenaline. He’s in the way, but I won’t let him take this small comfort away from me, too. He doesn’t move or say a word to stop me. I breathe harder, my pussy slick with desire. I can’t find his eyes in the darkness anymore, and I start to think maybe I’m in the clear.
Until he stands up.