As they headed up the stairs to the bedroom level, he asked if she had plans for tomorrow. She glanced at him and rolled her eyes.
“I think you can stop asking now.”
“What do you mean?”
“How about we just assume we’re going to spend the rest of our time here together?”
He grinned. “That works for me.”
“Good.”
They’d reached the top of the stairs. Shannon’s room was to the right, his to the left.
She snagged his hand, twined their fingers again. “Why don’t you come to my room, and we can discuss what we’re going to do tomorrow?”
Holy shit, was that code for take me to bed? To be fair, it wasn’t exactly subtle.
“I like that idea.”
***
This was the night, Shannon decided.
I’m dumping the nightmare. My past. The memory of my captor.
The man who slipped a mickey into her drink at one of her parents’ endless cocktail parties. She was nineteen years old.
She had still been an innocent, something that was common knowledge in her circles. Men craved her for it, and women hated her for the fact that her as yet-untouched vagina somehow made her more desirable than they were.
Yeah, she used to live in a pretty fucked up world.
That night, it got even more fucked up when a trusted family friend knocked her out and then carried her out the kitchen door—she learned this part later. The staff, she was told, all turned a blind eye.
Because of who was helping her.
She remembered waking up in a pitch black world, the sort of never-ending darkness that only occurred in underground, windowless rooms. Even now, nine years later, thinking about it created an almost irresistible urge to rush to the nearest window and fling open the sash, thrust out her head and greedily suck in the night air.
Probably because that was the nightmare she clawed herself free of most nights.
She recalled waking up, lying on her back on a bed that was not her own, smoothing her palms over the thick, down comforter, noting its excellent quality. Whoever had put her in this room had expensive taste, likely had money. At the time, she’d had no clue who would kidnap her right from under her very powerful father’s nose, although that was a result of her own naivety, because, in retrospect, there had been signs of the man’s obsession.
And plenty more signs that her parents would let it happen.
She’d hated the dark, even back then. Too many horror stories told by older cousins who clearly hadn’t realized how young and impressionable she was.
And there had been no one to console her when she got scared, either. Her mother was a lofty bitch who was usually strung out on booze or pills, and her father saw her as another asset instead of a daughter who just wanted someone to love her.
She almost winced as she led Leo to her room, at the same time hearing the scrape of metal sliding against metal in her mind as that door at the top of the stairs opened. She’d held her breath, her fingers curling against the comforter, as she’d waited for her fate.
The flash of light had made her blink rapidly, which hadn’t detracted at all from watching the shiny leather loafers thump, thump, thump as they made their way down the stairs. She didn’t dare look up into her captor’s face because that would make it real.
And then he spoke, and her situation went from bad to confusing.
“Hello, Shannon. How are you feeling?” The voice was pleasant, warm, and…familiar.
“Mr. Grigoryan?” She recalled glancing sharply at a clean shaven, strong jawline. At laugh lines around brown eyes that were ringed with thick lashes. At black hair with white streaks at the temples. At the body of a man with not a paunch or bit of flab in sight. Definitely not a dad bod, but certainly a dad.
Davit’s father.
“Wh-what are you doing here? Why am I here?”
He’d flipped on a lamp perched on a nearby table, illuminating the full-sized bed she sat on, that was situated against a wall, in a space that resembled a studio apartment, except with no windows. Besides the bed, there was a bistro-style table and two chairs, a basic kitchen with a sink and cupboards but no stove, and an open door across the way, through which she could see a shower stall and toilet.
“How did I get here?” she asked.
Nothing had made sense. This man wasn’t someone she feared. To be honest, ever since she became aware of the differences between men and women, she’d had a slight crush on him, despite the fact that he was three decades older and had two sons, one who was her age and another several years older.
He was one of her father’s business associates, someone who came to their house regularly. His wife had died a few years previous—cancer, if she recalled correctly. She hadn’t liked Davit or his brother, even back then; they acted all macho and tough like they needed to prove to the world they were better than everyone around them. She preferred men who had an inner confidence.
Like Mr. Grigoryan. She’d always had a soft spot for him. He treated her like she was in the room, whereas most of the men of her acquaintance tended to ignore her or ogle her, nothing in between.
“It’s a very long story, dear,” he responded to her question, “and we’ll get there, eventually. But first, please call me Hayk.”
She’d shifted backward on the bed until she was propped against the wall. “Okay.”
“Say it.”
“Hayk.”
He smiled. “I like the way you say it.”
She hadn’t known how to respond to that, so she said nothing at all.
“You are probably going to stay here for a very long time, my sweet. So
