In his cage dark abducti.., p.1
In His Cage: dark abduction romance, page 1
IN HIS CAGE
ELLA JACOBS
IN HIS CAGE
Copyright © 2023 by Ella Jacobs.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
http://www.ellajacobs.com
ISBN 978-87-974182-4-6
SHA-256 hash: eff8c6be56491aeb046e5218c
22a6ffdf56fe74f7432cefd2d3c399022fea41b
CONTENT
IN HIS CAGE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
GLOSSARY
Dear reader
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ALSO BY ELLA JACOBS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I had someone who knows Russian help me translate the Russian phrases in this story. You’ll find a glossary at the back of the book.
PROLOGUE
Crack!
The whip tears through the air with a horrible, obtrusive sound.
Then it strikes. Searing pain flares in my back, and I buckle in the chains as my knees give in beneath me. Black dots form in my vision as my world narrows to a dark tunnel of agony and despair. My scream fills the space, tearing through my throat and causing more pain.
But the pain isn’t the worst thing. The pain I can somehow handle. What nearly breaks me is the sting in my eyes, tears prickling to burst free in endless streams that I won’t be able to stop once started.
My captor may have my screams and my despair, but not my tears. I refuse to give in to him—refuse to give him my vulnerability.
A large arm comes around my waist, catching my weight as it presses me back into a hard body. The protective grip feels safe against all rational judgment. I want to sink into it, soak up the feeling as I let go of my strength.
I want to cry and take the sweet reward of his comfort.
But I can’t. Resistance is the only thing left that’s mine. So I stubbornly gather my strength, force back the despair, and straighten my legs.
“I hate you,” I grit through clenched teeth, pouring all my fury into the words. I desperately try to mean them. He was supposed to be the man who fulfilled my dreams, but he took me from my life instead, crushed my dreams, and cast me into this nightmare that becomes harder to fight with each passing day. I should genuinely mean those words, but they don’t ring true any longer, and he knows it.
“Ladno, prosto povtarayem i ty sdashsya.” Knuckles brush my cheek as a deep voice croons next to my ear. “We’ll just go again until you give in.”
CHAPTER 1
“Prishol! Prishol!” Natasha squeaks as she rushes up to me and grabs me by the shoulders. “He’s here!”
My heart flutters with the hope that she means who I think she does. For almost two years, I’ve been waiting for him, and time is running out. I only have three months left. It has to be him.
Natasha’s tall heels click against the floor as she scurries to the stage door. She moves like she was born in stilettos. Peeking into the concert hall, she waves her hand for me to join her.
I bunch up my black gown and wobble to her. I might have learned to play the piano in thin heels, but I still can’t manage Natasha’s natural grace.
“There.” She continues in English as she tries to point discreetly. “I think that’s him. In the fifth row.”
I peek my head out and scour the rows of antique wooden chairs beyond the stage. Chandeliers and sconces fill the hall with warm light, keeping out the darkness lurking outside the tall windows. But even so, I can only make out shapes and outlines from up here.
“On the far right by the corridor,” Natasha clarifies. “Black suit and red tie. Short, blond hair. Broad shoulders.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Since I came to study at the St. Petersburg music conservatory, this man has been my biggest hope, but I wouldn’t recognize him even if I came face to face with him. Being one of Russia’s top businessmen, Aleksandr Pletnev is surprisingly good at staying clear of the media. And since I steer clear of Facebook and news channels, I’ve gone this far without seeing a picture of him. It’s become quite the little superstition of mine, thinking I’ll somehow jinx my chances if I see his picture.
“It’s him, alright,” Natasha blurts, her excitement throwing her back into her mother tongue. She glances back at me with big, sparkling eyes. “Anna saw him when he came.”
“It is him,” a warmer voice confirms in accented English as a slender hand comes to rest on my shoulder. Anna leans against my back to join my inquisitive perusal of the man in the fifth row. “Aleksandr Pletnev. We’re finally getting our shot, Astrid.” Her fingertips dig into my shoulder, reflecting the anxious nervousness she hides so well on the outside.
I turn my head to look into her almond-shaped eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” She sweeps her long brown hair to the side as her delicate lips stretch into a thin line. “I’ve met him.”
I thought she would be excited, but there’s this somber gravity to her, laced with a sliver of hope. And... fear?
“Where? You’ve never told me.”
Her nose scrunches up like it does when she struggles to keep up her brave façade. “Somewhere else. It doesn’t matter. He’s not very nice.”
I pull back into our hideout behind the stage and drag her with me. “You say that about all rich men, Anna.”
The shudder in her shoulders doesn’t escape me. “This one is in a class of his own.” She tries to cover her unease with a smile. “But who cares? He might get us to the Mariinsky.”
“Who cares?” I echo, grabbing her hands to give them a reassuring squeeze. This man is the biggest patron of The White Nights Festival, and for several years, he’s been attending recitals here at the conservatory to scour for new talent. If he singles me out, I’m as good as guaranteed a spot on the festival program, playing at the famous Mariinsky concert stage. So it doesn’t matter if he’s nice or not—he holds the power to fulfill my biggest dream.
Natasha blabbers on in Russian, too fast for me to understand.
“Spokoyno,” I tell her to make her slow down.
I started learning Russian several years ago when I decided this was where I wanted to get my postgraduate degree, but it still doesn’t come naturally to me. People have to speak slowly, or I’ll only understand half of it.
Natasha goes on at a slower pace—something about her dress choice. But it’s still too fast, so when another girl joins us, I leave Natasha’s girly chatter to her and step up to Anna. She’s peeking out at Aleksandr Pletnev again.
I can hardly believe he’s finally here. I’d almost stopped hoping since I’ll graduate in three months.
He’s only going to pick one—if any at all—and though he tends to favor pianists, he could just as easily pick a violinist or an oboist. The competition is harsh. Tonight’s concert is meant to showcase the conservatory’s finest students rather than a specific instrument group or genre, so most of the postgraduate students are playing. He’ll have plenty to pick from, and I’ll have plenty of competitors. But I’m not losing hope. I’ve already defied the odds by getting into the conservatory back home in Norway and getting my master’s degree there. The odds were even more stacked against me when I pursued the piano performance program here in St. Petersburg. But here I am, earning my postgraduate degree at the conservatory I’ve always dreamed about attending. So maybe—just maybe—I’ll get lucky this time too.
Most students here end up with decent careers, playing their instrument for a living, but as with everything else, only a few reach the peak of the mountain. I’ve been aiming for that peak all my life, and Aleksandr Pletnev is the most certain ticket.
He’s not hard to find in the crowd. His authoritative posture and unnerving calmness make him stand out like a sore thumb. He’s far outside his natural habitat. This man belongs in private booths in grand concert halls, watching the world’s foremost musicians—not measly students clawing like beasts to reach the top.
Anna leans back to let me step in front of her. We might have the same slen
der hourglass figure, waist-long hair, and the same age of twenty-five, but the similarities end there. Anna is tall like a model; I’m short like a pixie. Her chestnut hair and amber eyes lend her a mysterious look, whereas my blond locks and round gray eyes give off a sweet and innocent vibe.
“How old is he?” I whisper. I had thought him to be fifty, at least. A balding, fat man like so many other rich Russians. But this man is the opposite.
“Thirty-five, thirty-seven.”
“Is he tall?” He appears tall as he sits there among the commoners with his broad shoulders and proud posture. Though, maybe it’s just his way of carrying himself that makes him appear so.
“A head taller than me.” Her voice takes on a playful lilt as she brushes her hand over my head. “You’d strain your neck if you spent more than five minutes talking to him.”
I reach behind me and pinch her side, making her squeal. “I’ll just stand on a chair then.”
“Ooh, that would get you in trouble. That man couldn’t stand a woman looking down at him. He’s a major misogynist.”
“We’re looking down at him right now, aren’t we?”
Anna pulls me back into safety and makes a yikes-face. I cover my mouth and snicker. If anyone can make me laugh, it’s Anna and her crazy faces. She doesn’t make them often, but when she does, it’s priceless. I’m one of the few lucky people who gets to see beyond her protective façade—the result of two years of living together.
A pang of sadness claws at my chest. In three months, we’ll each go our own way. I’ll return to Norway, and she’ll stay here. Or maybe she’ll land a string of concerts taking her across Europe. Maybe Asia. Who knows? She has the potential.
My face must reflect my troubled thoughts because Anna gives me a sympathetic smile. “Maybe he’ll pick us both,” she offers, misinterpreting my worry.
He has to pick us both. I need that spot on the Mariinsky stage—the grandest stage in Russia. It’s all I’ve ever worked for. Without it, I have to return to my parents’ “We told you so; now find a real job and a husband.” I can’t go back to that steady existence. It has always sucked the life out of me.
I give her a tight smile. How ironic that I’m the gloomy one and Anna is the optimist, when she’s the one who’s spent her whole life in this unforgiving country. But despite the harshness of it all—our worn-down apartment, the icy winters, and all the poverty—there’s more spirit and vigor here than I’ve ever found anywhere else.
Maybe I should stay—try my luck in these uncertain waters instead of going back home.
“Come.” Taking my hand, Anna leads me to a couple of chairs as our department head goes on stage to announce the first student.
“Do you think he’ll like my Rachmaninoff prelude?” I whisper. “Maybe I should have chosen something flashier like you? One of his etudes?” I’ve played plenty of flashy concert etudes and could easily whip one out, but the thought alone has my lips tightening.
Anna is the one who’s all virtuosic rapid-fire of impossible notes, whereas I’m more expressive depth and melodic beauty. Or rather, dark and brooding, restless and searching as of late.
“Are you kidding me?” She laces her fingers with mine. “He’d be an idiot not to appreciate the depth of your music. No etude could showcase it like the G minor prelude.”
“He’ll love your piece too,” I say when I feel the strain in her grip.
Nerves are an inevitable part of performing, but with all the concerts we’ve played throughout our lives, we’ve learned to use them to our advantage. Tonight, though, these well-practiced strategies fail us. My hand quivers in Anna’s long pianist’s fingers, and her palm is more clammy than usual, our reassuring smiles more strained.
We sit like this for the next half hour, tense and silent, listening to the other performers.
“Our next student is Astrid Berger from Norway,” our department head announces.
Anna brings me into a tight hug. “You’ll do great. You always do.”
Squeezing both her hands, I give her my bravest smile, straighten my spine, and walk onto the stage.
Blood rushes through my veins, making my heart pound quicker than the music I’m about to play. I try to keep my breathing level, my steps firm so I won’t slip on the glossy floor in my too-high heels.
My eyes dart to the fifth row, and I catch a glimpse of the powerful man watching me—the man who can pull me from the swamp of normalcy and into greatness. I’ve always yearned for more. Something beyond the confining routines of life—something to ease the restless yearning pumping in my veins. This man can give it to me if only I prove myself worthy.
I gracefully sink onto the piano bench and turn the knobs at the sides until it’s high enough for my small figure. Then I settle in the seat with my feet flat on the ground and rub my clammy hands on my gown. A familiar rush surges through me as I feel the weight of a hundred people watching me. Only me. But the eyes feel more insistent today. More oppressive.
I block it out and place my right foot on the sustain pedal, balancing it on the thin heel as my toe hovers above the golden metal. It’s taken a long year of frustration to get comfortable playing in heels. You can’t play in flats on the concert stage of the Mariinsky. You just can’t.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and remind myself there’s nothing to be nervous about. I’ve been doing this since I was seven. Playing the piano is second nature to me. Like breathing.
When I open my eyes again, the first notes of Rachmaninoff’s prelude rush through my mind as I visualize the pattern on the keys.
I know exactly what to do.
I lift my hands, wrists loose, fingers spread to accommodate the large chords, and then I burst into the nervous notes. The music seeps from my fingers and through the instrument, encompassing my entire world.
People say this piece is about being buried alive, and I understand the interpretation. The darkness and frustration are palpable. But to me, it represents my own mind.
The burden of the deep notes is my own. The rapid-fire of octaves is the longing crawling in my veins. And when the anxiety explodes in the mid-section, it’s my own frustration that crashes through the hall.
I breathe it all in, feeling every note in the depth of my soul. The music swamps me, and I merge with it until neither I nor it holds any meaning beyond the other.
Four minutes of pure ecstasy.
I fire off the last notes and lift my hands from the keys. Clapping becomes a thunderous noise around me. I’ve always hated the clapping. I’m grateful for the intent, but the sound is stifling. I have to subdue the urge to cower.
With a steadying breath, I step out to the middle of the stage. The clapping is part of it, and like the audience shows their respect, I show mine with an elegant bow.
Summoning all my confidence, I gaze out over the sea of people. It’s as claustrophobic as the noise, but I have one last statement to make before I go.
I scan the fifth row until I find him. He’s still watching me, and suddenly, I feel dizzy as I fall into the trap of his gaze. I can’t see his eyes clearly, but I can feel them. Their intensity is as palpable as a roaring fire. Dangerous and oppressive. But I don’t let them intimidate me. I hold my chin up, spine straight, and will him to see me. Will him to pick me.
He stares back with a force that has my resolve wavering. Something tells me this is not a man to be trifled with, but I keep watching him. I don’t think I could break away even if I wanted to. Clutching my hands in front of me, I fight the need to lower my shoulders—lower my chin. I don’t know if I succeed, and I don’t know that I care anymore.
I don’t see or feel anything except those eyes burning into my skin, trying to take something. Something more than my music. Part of my soul? It scares me to the bone yet thrills me to the core.
The applause keeps beating, but I only hear my pounding heart, only see the man holding my eyes—holding my future in the palm of his hand.
Pick me!
My heart is bursting with the need to shout it out loud. But I feel helpless under his gaze, unable to move, unable to speak. So I force the message into my eyes, praying he’ll see it.
He makes a slight tilt of his head, almost like he’s trying to decipher my message. Then he stands, the motion strong and resolute. Closing the top button of his suit jacket, he gives me a firm nod.
