Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Mara
Consciousness comes slowly. It’s like I’m in a thick fog at first. This is always the case when I wake from a drugged sleep. I think it’s my mind’s way of protecting me. Making me feel like I’m safe for just a little while longer.
I hear a sound, water running, and people talking in the distance. Or maybe a TV. I’m lying on a bed. A different bed than mine. And I’m warm, the blanket over me comforting for its weight. I don’t recognize the scent around me. Petrov always smelled faintly of food masked by too much cologne. This isn’t that smell. This is the smell of a man. Of leather and sandalwood and something almost tangibly dangerous. But this scent doesn’t turn my stomach. It makes me want to inhale deeply.
I blink, my eyelids heavy, and slowly open my eyes just as the sound around me changes and a door opens.
With a gasp I bolt upright and stare at the man entering the room. Because I remember where I am. That warehouse-like building. I remember the soldiers who stormed the penthouse and killed everyone in it. Remember this man, the one with the leather eye patch—the one claiming to be Dante—who rescued me from that hell.
Who then drugged me and put me in this bed.
“Good morning,” he says with what I can hear is false cheer.
Morning? I glance to the windows, see the gray sky, the heavy clouds. It doesn’t look like morning.
“Well, evening, really,” he corrects as if reading my mind.
I turn back to find him watching me. Steam bellows out of the bathroom behind him. He must have been showering. That’s what the water was. The other sound is a TV. A sitcom maybe. I hear the audience laugh on cue.
“There’s a bottle of water for you. You’re probably thirsty.” I glance at the bottle of water on a makeshift nightstand beside the bed but don’t touch it. “And hungry. Just let me get dressed and I’ll make us something to eat.”
I turn back to him. I am both thirsty and hungry. But I’m not sure if the water is drugged.
“It’s not drugged,” he says, and I wonder if he can read my mind. “I don’t want to drug you again.”
Then why did you?I want to ask but don’t.
He looks at me for a moment longer and I wonder about his eye under that patch, wonder how he got the deep gashes across his face.
He buckles the belt on his jeans as he heads toward the table where a pile of clothes is stacked. I take the bottle, twist off the cap and drink as I watch him because I’m too thirsty not to. I take in his powerful, naked back. Watch how his muscles work as he moves. So different than anyone I’ve seen. I also see the scars. See the bandage wrapped around his arm with the faint pink of blood.
He got shot getting me out of that penthouse. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
He chooses a shirt then turns and heads toward me. He slips his arms into the charcoal button down. He hasn’t wiped the droplets of water off his shoulders, and they leave dark spots on the shirt. He tucks the shirt into his jeans never once taking his eyes off me. I feel my face go hot.
“You slept all night and most of the day. Do you feel better?”
I look down at myself then, notice it’s not the dress I’m wearing but an oversized hoodie. I lift the blanket a little to peek underneath. Okay, that’s it. Just the hoodie.
“Mara?”
My gaze snaps back to his and I’m about to tell him I’m not Mara when I remember we’ve had this conversation. Remember what he’d said about Lizzie’s eyes being green. Mine are blue. And the birthmark. I remember that too. Lizzie used to say I must be special to have a star on the back of my shoulder. It was more pronounced when I was younger but it’s still there. We used to pretend that maybe my father was a king from a far-off land of magical beings.
Dante sits down on the bed. I draw my legs up and after buttoning his shirt, he rolls up the sleeves wincing when he pushes the one over the bandage.
“Did you touch me?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes level on his. Trying to focus on the good eye and not keep looking at either the patch or the scar. Not wanting to care that he’s hurt. I notice he tries to turn the good side of his face toward me. Like he’s trying to hide the damaged half.
“I cleaned you up as much as I could while you were sleeping then put you in one of my hoodies so you wouldn’t be cold. I have some clothes for you though. I thought you’d want to put them on yourself after a shower.”
“What does it mean exactly that you cleaned me up?”
“I cleaned the blood off you. Cleaned the dirt off you. I did not touch you in any inappropriate way. I would not.” His voice hardens at the last part as if I were accusing him of just that. Maybe I was.
But again, like with the water, I believe him. I don’t know why but I guess he doesn’t have a reason to lie. I’m here. I’m his. I can’t get away from him. We proved that last night. And he can do whatever he likes to me.
“Why did you drug me then?”
“Because you were getting upset. I didn’t want you upset.”
I try to make out if that’s all. I feel like he’s leaving something out. I study his good eye. It’s familiar, like Lizzie’s.
But the Dante I knew was a boy. This is a man.
The Dante I knew was killed before he had a chance to become a man. This man is a cold-blooded killer.
“Would you like to eat something before you have a shower?”
I’m hungry but I want to be alone for a few minutes. I want to be sure he didn’t touch me or do anything else to me. I shake my head.
“All right,” he stands. “Bathroom’s in there. You’ll find everything you need but if I forgot anything, I’ll be inside, okay?”
“Is there a lock on the door?”
“Yes, there is.”
“Can I use it?”
He’s momentarily confused by the question but recovers quickly. It’s not so strange a question. Petrov would test me. See if I’d use the locks he’d put on and take off the doors. He said I was his. That I would always be available to him. And he’d punish me when I locked any door, even the bathroom. He always knew, too, even if it was for an instant. Just for one little second so I could feel a little in control. A little safe.
“Yes, Mara,” he says, smiling that sad smile. “You can lock the door. You can take your time and I’ll wait for you inside. You’re safe here. Safe with me.”
“No, I’m not.”
He opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. He moves to pick up his phone from on top of a stack of books. He slides his finger over the screen and then types something quickly using both thumbs before turning back to me.
“Holler if you need anything,” he says, and walks to the door. He opens it and the sound of the TV grows louder.
“Dante’s dead,” I call out when he has one foot out of the bedroom.
He stops at that and turns, his hand on the doorknob.
“I saw them. They all died,” I tell him.
“That’s not true. I wasn’t on the island. And Cristiano survived. You met his wife, Scarlett.”
“Scarlett?” I feel my forehead furrow.
He nods. “They started a family. They have a little boy. Well, more of a little hellion,” he says proudly. “And another one on the way.”
“She’s alive?”
He nods. “Because of you. You made that deal with Petrov and saved her life.”
No, I didn’t. I hadn’t been smart in how I’d said it, but I only realized it later. And I don’t like that he is trying to flatter me. I’m about to tell him so when his phone buzzes and he turns his attention to it.
“That’ll be Cristiano. They’re anxious to hear from you. Your grandmother especially.”
My grandmother is dead. They killed her too. Felix told me. Showed me the pictures. I’d been five at the time, but I still remember the mess they made. The ruin they left in their wake.
Why is he doing this? Why is he lying to me like this? Playing with me. Is this one of Petrov’s tricks? Did he stage it all only to punish me again? He’s done it before. He likes playing with me. Making me fall into his traps for his sadistic pleasure.
“Is this a test? A trick?”
“What?”
I push my fingers into my hair trying to think.
“Have a shower, Mara. Get cleaned up. Put on fresh clothes. Then we’ll talk. I’ll tell you all about them. We can even call them.”
I stare up at him.
“Lock the door if you want. I won’t hurt you or punish you.”
I study him and as much as I want to believe him, I can’t afford to. I look down at my lap, thinking what to do. How to get back to the penthouse.
“All right?” he asks, taking a step back into the room, back toward me.
He dips his head to see my face, eyebrows high and I want to believe him.
“What happened to your eye?” I ask before I can stop myself. I don’t want to care.
He straightens again, expression hardening a little. “There was an explosion. I lost my sight in that eye soon after.”
“Explosion?”
“Five years ago. The night Petrov took you. The night Scarlett killed Helga.”
He knows all of that? He was there, in that house? If he was there, then why did he let Petrov take me? If he cared so much, why would he let Petrov have me? It doesn’t add up.
“Go get cleaned up. We’ll talk after.”
I nod so he’ll leave and watch him finally walk out of the room. When the door closes, I take a moment to really look around. It’s a big room, bigger than even Petrov’s bedroom was. But his was tacky. This is minimal. Industrial. I like it. Even the mattress is set on piles of crates. No bed frame.
One wall has large windows without any curtains. I climb out of the bed, the cement floor cold. No carpet. The first thing I do is go to the door and lock it. I have the feeling if he wanted to, he could kick it in pretty easily, but I do it anyway.
I walk to the window, put a hand against the glass. It’s cold and a light snow has begun to fall. On the pavement below I see the remnants of the last storm from a few days ago. It’s black slush now. It had been cold the last time I was in the city too.
I see why he doesn’t have curtains here. There isn’t another building nearby, not a high one at least. We must not be in the city proper. Assuming we’re still in New York although the helicopter ride wasn’t very long so I think we are. Maybe New Jersey.
The urge to pee has me turning to go into the bathroom. I check out his things as I go, a few sweaters, some shirts, jeans. His wallet is sticking out of the pocket of the jeans, and I glance to the door before slipping it out. He must have forgotten it was here.
I bite my lip as I touch the soft black leather. It could be a test, so I just decide to have a look. See if he really is who he says he is. I open it but inside only find cash. No ID. Not even a credit card. Convenient. I count the money. Eight hundred-dollar bills.
I close the wallet and slip it back into his pocket. I won’t take it. What would I do with it anyway? I go into the bathroom, switch on the light, close and lock the door. This is spacious too and everything looks new and nice. I run my fingers over the stone countertop as I head to the toilet. I really need to pee. I pull the hoodie up—it’s big enough that it falls to mid-thigh—and pee. That’s when I notice the bandage on my hip over the P.
When I’m finished, I wash my hands and twist a little to inspect the dressing in the mirror. I peel it back and see the remnants of a white ointment. Did he do that? It hurts less than it did, so I gently press it back on and look at my face, my hair. I look gaunt, shadows under my eyes, my cheeks hollowed out. My stomach growls as if reminding me why that is.
I don’t need a reminder. I’m hungry. Always hungry. I’ve been starving for years.
On a stool across the room is a pile of folded clothes with tags still on them. I guess they’re for me. Jeans, a sweater. Underthings. A pair of boots. All new.
I should shower before I put them on, but I just splash water on my face in the sink and return to the bedroom. Because I’d seen something at the window.
I go to it and look out, watch the train that runs along the elevated track not too far away and I realize I don’t hear it. He must have the place soundproofed. A fence circles the parking lot around the building but it’s old and not maintained. Not as secure as I’m used to.
And when I press my forehead to the window, I see the ladder I’d just glimpsed against the wall of the building. I can’t tell if it’s broken. If it reaches all the way down to the parking lot. I glance at the closed bedroom door then back to the window. I unlock it. It’s easy. Too easy. But the window itself is jammed and harder to open. It takes a few minutes but soon enough there’s a creak and I push it up. It only goes half-way then gets stuck again but that’s all I need.
Bending I stick my head out into the cold evening and see the remnants of the fire escape. The ladder is intact, and it goes almost to the parking lot. That last part I’d have to jump but it looks like it’s only a few feet. I can do that.
I hurry back to the bathroom and switch on the shower, leaving the bathroom door open as I pull off the hoodie. That’s when I notice the band aid stuck to the crease of my forearm. I take a minute to look at it, peel it back to see the miniscule puncture. Another injection.
He doesn’t want to drug me. Yeah, right.
I yank the band-aid away and let it drop to the floor. Quickly, I put on the folded clothes, fresh underthings, a warm, soft sweater. No coat, though. I’ll need a coat.
After slipping my feet into the boots I put his hoodie back on over top of my clothes, catching that faint scent of him. The feeling it gives me goes against what I’m thinking, against the warning in my head that this is all a lie. A trick.
I shove the feeling away and leave the shower running when I return to the bedroom, pausing when I see the wallet again, knowing there’s eight-hundred-dollars inside. I slip one of the bills out. I may need it when I get out of this room. I don’t know how far I am from the hotel. The Hudson, I remember the name. Like the river.
I head to the window and pause when I hear men’s voices inside speaking quietly. I wonder if they’re all still here, but I can’t think about that right now. Fear paralyzes. I know that well.
I can’t be afraid.
So, before I get to that point, I bend down and climb out of the window. The landing is not quite stable, the metal of the ladder rusty and cold. I hold on tight as I toe the first rung, just barely managing to touch it. My heart races and my breath mists in the morning air. The hoody catches on something, tearing, and I feel a sting as I swing the other leg out, but I don’t care. I’m out. And I climb as fast as I can manage, which isn’t very fast because it’s so cold my fingers are freezing. I’m also scared of falling. But soon I’m at the end of it and I look five or six feet down to the ground. It seems higher now that I’m here.
But I have no choice.
So, I turn carefully and when my back is to the wall, I take a deep breath and jump.