Pytka
1197 Words
When the tall man enters the car and settles beside me, the air inside shifts instantly.
He's too close.
Far too close.
My body reacts before my mind does. Tiny goosebumps ripple across my skin, and the fine hairs along my arms stand on end. A strange warmth coils low in my stomach, followed by a faint scent — something dark and intoxicating. Woodsy. Smoky. Masculine.
My pulse quickens.
I stiffen, pressing myself subtly against the door.
I just hope it's not what I think.
No.
I'm probably hallucinating. Paranoia. Fear. Trauma.
He can't be one of them.
He just can't.
Because if he is… then I'm in even more trouble than I thought.
The ride continues in suffocating silence.
No one speaks.
Not him.
Not me.
Not even the driver.
The only sound is the faint hum of the engine and the pounding of my own heart.
I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye.
He's relaxed.
Completely calm.
One arm stretched lazily across the back seat, long fingers resting casually, like he isn't kidnapping me in broad daylight. His jaw is sharp, his expression unreadable, and those dark eyes remain fixed ahead, as if he's already forgotten I'm even there.
Yet somehow… I know he hasn't.
Minutes later, the cityscape begins to change.
The cramped buildings disappear, replaced by elegant townhouses and manicured sidewalks. Expensive cars line the streets. The atmosphere shifts — quieter, wealthier, untouchable.
Upper East Side.
Where the rich dwell.
My stomach twists.
Is he some kind of billionaire?
The limo slows, then glides smoothly through a set of towering iron gates that open automatically. My breath catches as we drive up a long, winding driveway lined with trimmed hedges and tall trees.
And then I see it.
The mansion.
It's massive.
Three stories tall, built in white stone, with tall glass windows reflecting the afternoon sun. A sculpted mermaid fountain stands proudly at the center of a circular driveway, water cascading gently into the marble basin.
This isn't just wealth.
This is power.
The car stops.
The driver exits first, walking around to open the door for the man beside me. He steps out smoothly, adjusting his suit with effortless grace.
Then the door opens for me.
I hesitate.
But I know better than to refuse.
I step out slowly, my eyes darting around nervously.
Guards.
They're everywhere.
Standing near pillars. By the doors. Along the driveway.
All dressed in black.
All watching me.
I swallow hard.
There's no escape.
Not here.
I'm led inside.
The moment I step through the grand doors, my breath catches.
The interior is breathtaking.
Polished marble floors stretch beneath my feet, reflecting golden chandelier lights above. A sweeping staircase curves elegantly toward the second floor, its banister crafted from dark wood. Expensive paintings decorate the walls, and soft classical music hums faintly in the background.
I've never seen anything like it.
I feel… small.
Out of place.
Like a stray cat that wandered into a palace.
The man turns toward me, one hand slipping casually into his pocket. His gaze lingers on me longer than necessary.
"Relax, Pytka," he says calmly. "My name is Kai Dragunov. And this… is my home."
Kai Dragunov.
The name sounds powerful.
Dangerous.
Foreign.
"Why do you keep calling me Pytka?" I ask, realizing it's the least of my worries but still unable to ignore it.
His lips stretch into a faint smile.
Barely there.
Yet there's nothing gentle about it.
He looks calm, composed… but there's something dark beneath the surface. Like a storm waiting to break.
"Lyubopytka," he says smoothly in an accent I presume to be Russian. "Little curious one." His gaze sharpens slightly. "You were the girl in the alleyway… no?"
My blood turns to ice.
He knows.
Oh God.
He knows.
My heart slams violently against my ribs. My eyes dart around, scanning for an exit. The front door is close. If I run—
"Don't think about it," he says quietly.
I freeze.
"I will not hesitate to shoot you before you make it out."
My throat tightens.
He's reading me like an open book.
"I won't take much of your time," he continues casually. "All I need… is for you to be my wife and alibi."
I wait.
Surely, he's joking.
He doesn't laugh.
Oh God.
He's serious.
"Are you crazy?" I whisper. "Your wife? You don't even know me. I don't even know you."
"I know you saw me kill a man." His tone is flat. "That's all I need."
I step back.
"This is insane. I'm not interested in whatever this is. I have to get back to work."
"Agree to this, Pytka, and you won't ever need to work again."
"Celine," I say firmly. "My name is Celine. And I'm not interested. Let me go."
His gaze hardens slightly.
"You leave me with no choice." He glances toward the driver. "Take her to her room."
Alarm floods through me.
"What room? I said I'm not interested—"
"You don't have a choice, Pytka," he interrupts coldly. "You will agree… or you will be starved until you do."
Fear grips me.
The driver steps forward.
I try to back away, but another guard appears behind me.
I'm surrounded.
"No—wait—" I begin, but the driver gently yet firmly grips my arm.
"This way, miss," he says politely.
I fight the urge to struggle.
It wouldn't help.
He leads me up the grand staircase, down a long hallway lined with closed doors. My heart pounds louder with every step.
Finally, he stops in front of a large door.
He opens it.
"Your room," he says.
I step inside cautiously.
The room is… beautiful.
Huge.
A king-sized bed sits in the center, covered in soft white sheets. Tall windows overlook the garden outside. A chandelier hangs overhead. A plush rug covers the floor, and a vanity table sits near the wall.
It's luxurious.
But it feels like a prison.
"Please," I say quietly. "You can't keep me here."
"I'm sorry," he replies.
Then he steps out.
The door shuts.
Click.
Locked.
Panic surges through me.
I rush forward, twisting the handle.
Locked.
I pound against the door.
"Hello?!" I shout. "Let me out!"
No response.
I hit the door harder.
"This isn't funny! Let me out!"
Silence.
Minutes pass.
Then more.
I try the windows.
Locked.
Of course.
I pace the room, my chest tightening.
This can't be happening.
I slump onto the bed, burying my face in my hands.
What am I going to do?
Hours pass slowly.
The sun begins to set.
No one comes.
No food.
No water.
No help.
I shout again.
And again.
My voice grows hoarse.
Eventually, exhaustion creeps in.
My body feels heavy.
My eyes burn.
I curl up on the large bed, feeling small despite its size.
Fear still coils in my chest.
What if he really starves me?
What if I never get out?
Tears slip silently down my temples.
The last thing I remember…
Is the faint glow of the evening sun fading from the windows.
Then darkness.
And exhaustion finally drags me into sleep.
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