ARIANA

Before I can make sense of what’s happening, my eyes lock on the man I saw at Starbucks, and then he slams the trunk shut on me.

It takes a couple of seconds for my mind to catch up, and then horror and panic rocket through me. My heart goes from a drowsy beat to hammering against my ribs like a caged bird. My mouth instantly turns dry as prickles of fear rush over my skin.

And then I scream. The sound is sharp and petrified even though he gagged me.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

My mind races, unable to stop for a second to gather my bearings. I begin to kick against the inside of the trunk, and when I try to move my hands, I realize they’re tied behind my back.

No.

Crap, this is bad.

I hear the engine start, and when the car pulls away from the curb, I let out more terrified screams.

When my throat is raw, I manage to stop screaming, and my body instantly resorts to crying.

It takes a while for me to get control over the shock and to calm myself down so I can process what’s happening.

I remember waking up to someone jumping on me, and then I was choked.

I thought I was being killed. The fear was surreal and traumatizing, and just remembering it sends a wave of shivers through my body.

But I’m not dead.

Oh, God.

I’m being kidnapped.

My mind freezes again, unable to accept something like this is happening to me.

Why?

Who?

What does he want with me?

I can only think this is because of who my father is. That’s the only reason someone would take me.

Right?

Right. That has to be it.

Because nothing else will make sense.

Crap.

I suck in a deep breath of air, trying to remain as calm as I can.

I’ve already lost track of where I am, but still, I try to focus on every turn the car makes.

I have no idea how long we drive for, and the moment the car stops, my heart speeds up so fast I’m afraid I’ll pass out from the instant rush of adrenaline flooding my body.

I listen, but all I can hear are my frantic breaths and pounding heart.

Then the trunk opens, and I begin to thrash. My voice is muffled as I cry, “Let me go!”

The man reaches for me, and without any effort, he grabs hold of my waist and yanks me out of the car. I’m tossed over his shoulder, but I manage to struggle enough to free myself from his hold.

I fall to the ground with a painful thud, the gravel from whatever road we’re on scrapping at my left elbow and hip.

“Blyad',” he mutters.

That’s Russian for fuck. It’s one of the few words I know.

Oh, God. He’s Russian.