Chapter 4
1317 Words
Jenkins
I can’t stop moving. The floor of this room is going to have a groove in it by the time I’m done pacing. My heartbeat hasn’t slowed since they shut that door hours ago, locking me inside like some trophy they weren’t sure whether to polish or throw into a pit.
Four hours. More than four, actually. I’ve counted every minute. Every inhale. Every exhale.
And the silence?
The silence is the worst part.
No yelling. No threats. No guards stationed inside. No food. No water.
Nothing but the low hum of this mansion’s expensive security system and the distant echo of men walking in hallways far from here.
Whoever thinks captivity is chains and screams has clearly never been trapped with quiet and waiting as their only companions.
And of course, it had to be them.
Not some sloppy drug crew or wannabe cartel babies still trying to grow their first body count.
No.
I had to be taken by the f*****g Z Clan.
The ghost empire in the city — the one the police files always have redacted paragraphs and missing pages for.
The group that turns rivals into warnings carved into concrete.
Now I know more than any agent or sergeant or fed ever did:
Where they live.
How they move.
And who’s running the entire bloody throne.
Zeldric.
Even his name feels like a knife dragged slow across steel.
And just my luck, he isn’t a saggy crime boss with greasy hair and a gold chain choking his neck.
No, the universe decided to gift me a walking temptation with a death sentence aura.
Tall. Dark hair. Darker eyes. Tattoos that curl up his throat like they have stories no one survives hearing. A jaw made of steel and sin. Hands that look carved for violence but move like they know softness too.
The kind of man who shouldn’t exist in real life — only in the fantasies of women who enjoy danger too much for their own sanity.
I hate that my brain noticed.
I stop pacing and rub my face hard with both hands. My muscles ache, exhaustion settling into my bones like cement. Dawn is pushing at the edge of the night outside — that glass wall gives me a front-row seat to the sky turning gray.
At least I got the blood off my hands in the bathroom sink. Stripped off the shirt that was soaked with it. Now I’m in my tank top and pants, hair down, nerves buzzing, body tight like a loaded spring.
I need out.
Before he changes his mind and puts a bullet in me just to tidy up loose ends.
The door opens — softly, like he didn't need to make noise to command the whole world anyway.
As if pulled by gravity, I turn right when he steps inside. Still in the same clothes — black shirt, rolled sleeves, the faintest scent of smoke and leather following him. A folder under one arm. Expression unreadable except for that obnoxious little smirk that only men who think they own everything dare to wear.
He stands right in the middle of the room, on that stupidly expensive rug, like he's the king of some twisted fairytale kingdom built from blood instead of bricks.
“Mía Jenkins,” he murmurs as he opens the file, voice smooth, low, too calm for anyone who kills as easily as he breathes.
I straighten slowly. A soldier’s poise — spine tall, chin leveled. I refuse to look cornered.
So he dug into me. Took his time with it. Fine. Let him have whatever surface-level intel he scraped up. He can’t threaten me with family. I don’t have one left.
Most people break because they fear someone they love suffering.
I don’t have that burden.
There’s freedom in that kind of loss. A brutal freedom, but freedom nonetheless.
“That’s all you got?” "I reply, crossing my arms."“I expected better from city legends.”
His eyes drop — of course they do — and return just as lazily.
“Oh, I found more,” he says, stepping forward with the casual confidence of someone who has never had to check behind his back. “Sergeant Mía Jenkins. Thirty-two. Combat medic. U.S. Army. Afghanistan — twice. Six years and three days of active combat duty.”
His smirk sharpens.
"Awarded the Medal of Honor by the President." Saved seven men and neutralized over twenty hostile threats during a single engagement.”
Neutralized.
As if that word can simplify what war really is.
“Only the ones still breathing,” I correct, my voice cutting through his like razor wire. He needs to know I am not a trophy story to polish. I am what the battlefield made me: efficient and unbreakable.
His eyes go darker, interest shifting from curiosity to something more primal. “Already calculating how to take me out, Mía?”
“Jenkins.” I don't blink.
He ignores the correction like my name is his to handle however he wants. The arrogance is almost impressive.
“We’ll discuss your father another day,” he adds, folding the file. “General, wasn’t he?”
He watches my jaw tighten and drinks it in like victory.
“What happens now?” I ask, voice steady but loaded.
He lets the question sit between us like a live grenade.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering for hours.”
He steps closer — slow, predatory — until my breath brushes his. His presence is suffocating in a way that feels intentional. Deliberate. A weapon he knows how to use.
“I gave you my word, so I won’t kill you,” he says softly. “But letting you walk out of here? Not happening.”
He lowers his voice even more, dark amusement curling through it.
"Really? How did you imagine this ends?"
“If you're smart, you’ll choose soon,” I shoot back. “I don't do well in cages.”
His smile spreads slow — wicked and hungry. He leans in, so close our noses almost touch. He inhales, long and deep, like he’s memorizing me with his senses.
“You smell dangerous,” he whispers. “And tempting.”
My pulse betrays me for a beat — but my expression doesn't. I force my breath even. Controlled.
“And that’s without a shower since yesterday,” I mutter.
He laughs under his breath, a wolf amused at the lamb trying to bare its teeth. Then he backs up a few steps, eyes still hooked into mine.
“My men aren’t thrilled about your little firearm stunt. So for now, you stay here. Only Héctor and Marcos have access. Food will be brought. Clothes too.”
“So I’m a prisoner?”
He glances around like the whole luxury suite is a joke. “I’ve slept in worse cages. But yes, if that label helps you cope, go ahead.”
"Think whatever you want," I bite out.
He reaches the door, hand on the handle. Pauses. Looks at me again, slower this time.
“Rest. Shower. By noon, you’ll check my brother and the others.”
The lock clicks when he leaves.
And then the silence returns — heavy and suffocating.
I sit again, dig my palms into my eyes, and let a quiet breath slip out.
I am so unbelievably screwed.
No extraction. No backup. They’ve probably torched the ambulance tracking chip already. I am well and truly alone in the belly of a criminal empire.
If I want to get out alive…
I might have to break the promise I swore I’d die before breaking.
You won’t kill again.
The vow presses against my skull like iron.
But the way Zeldric looks at me — like I’m prey he intends to devour slowly — is making it harder than I ever expected.
- Writer
