Bound to the calloway's heir

AVA.

I woke up to a throbbing ache that pulsed through my skull, each throb sending shards of pain radiating down my neck. The world was pitch black, forced by something tight and unyielding wrapped around my eyes.

It was a rough fabric and scratchy as it bit into my skin where it pressed against my temples. My mouth felt dry, and when I tried to swallow, I tasted a metallic tang on my tongue. Blood, maybe, from biting my lip or cheek during whatever had happened.

Panic flickered at the edges of my mind, but I shoved it down, forcing myself to breathe steadily. Through my nose, I smelt stale air, laced with dust and rusty paint or chemicals.

I shifted, or tried to, and that was when reality hit me. My wrists were bound behind my back, thick ropes digging into my skin with every twitch; the fibers were coarse. My ankles were similarly restrained, tied to what felt like the legs of a chair, wooden and splintered under my probing heels. The chair itself was hard, probably metal or old wood, creaking faintly as I tested my bonds.

How did I get here?

The question clawed at me, demanding answers. I pieced it together slowly, fragments of my memory surfacing through the haze of pain. I had been in my penthouse waiting for Damian. My heart had raced at the thought of seeing him again.

I had paced the living room, wine glass in hand, the rich cabernet doing little to calm my nerves when I heard the knock. I had assumed it was him, early as always when it mattered. I had smoothed my dress, having chosen the sleek black one that hugged my curves, and opened the door with a smile ready on my lips.

But it wasn't Damian. And everything happened fast, a gloved hand swinging something heavy at me, was it a pipe? A baton? It hit against the side of my head. Stars exploded behind my eyes, and then I blacked out.

Now, there I was. Tied, blindfolded, vulnerable.

My breath quickened despite my efforts, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine, soaking into the fabric of my dress. The room was cold; it gave me the kind of chill that seeped into my bones. There were no windows, either, so I could sense its faint glow seeping through the blindfold. Was I underground, maybe? Or in a basement or warehouse? The air had that musty undertone, making me feel it was more like forgotten storage. The faint echoes of the seat bounced when I shifted, suggesting high ceilings or empty space around me.

I tugged at the ropes again, subtly, testing for give. None. It had been professionally knitted tightly, but not cutting through my blood circulation yet. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing. Not some amateur grudge from the fashion world, more tied to the Atlas.

Then I heard heavy footsteps, echoing from somewhere to my left. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I forced my face to remain neutral, lifting my chin even in blindness. Show no fear. I was a Calloway-Sinclair; strength ran in our veins. Zane had taught me that, drilling it into me since the aftermath of our parents' deaths. And Damian... he would come. He always did.

The footsteps stopped close, too close. I could smell his sweat with a hint of cologne and the heat radiating from his body, making the air thicker.

"You're awake," he said in a muffled voice, distorted by what sounded like a mask. His voice was deep and gravelly, with an edge that sent a shiver racing down my arms. It was filtered electronically to hide his identity. Smart.

I didn't respond immediately, letting the silence stretch while I gathered my thoughts. Curiosity burned in me, sharper than the fear of my state. Who was he? What did he want? Where were we? Knowing the details could be my weapon, to be used as leverage for my escape.

He chuckled, a low rumble that echoed oddly in the space. "Playing tough? Good. Makes this more interesting."

His fingers brushed my face roughly. It was gloved giving me a scratch and I flinched despite myself. He untied the blindfold with deliberate slowness, as if savoring my anticipation. When the fabric fell away, I blinked against the sudden dim light.

It was not pitch black after all; there was a single bulb hung overhead, swaying faintly, casting our reflection across the cracked concrete walls. The room was gray, stained with rusted pipes running along the ceiling. There was a metal door opposite me with a small, barred window high up. There was no furniture except my chair and a rickety table in the corner, holding a few tools, duct tape, zip ties, and a phone. Warehouse, definitely. Abandoned, by the dust motes dancing in the light. The air hummed with distant traffic, suggesting we were on the outskirts of the city, maybe an industrial district.

My eyes locked on him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black tactical pants, a jacket and boots that screamed military gear. The mask covered his entire face, black fabric with mesh over the eyes and a voice modulator built in, distorting his words into something mechanical, inhuman. The gloves hid his hands, leaving no skin visible.

Anonymous and Professional.

"Who are you?" I asked, as my pulse raced with curiosity. I needed to know, to probe for weaknesses.

He tilted his head, the mask's blank stare unnerving. "Doesn't matter who I am. What matters is what I want."

I leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, ignoring the bite into my wrists. "Humor me. You went through the trouble of kidnapping me, it must be personal. Old grudge? Someone from Zane's past?"

He paused, then let out another chuckle, this one laced with amusement. He pulled up a folding chair, the metal scraping against the floor, and sat across from me, legs spread wide, letting his arms rest on his knees. He was close enough that I could see the faint reflection of the bulb in the mesh eyes.

"Curious little thing, aren't you? Fine. Call me... Echo. Fitting, don't you think? My voice bounces back, hides the truth."

Echo. Theatrical. He wanted to play games. I could use that.

"Echo, then. Where are we? This place looks like it's seen better days. Old factory? Storage unit?"

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "You've got sharp eyes for a model. This is an abandoned warehouse on the edge of LA. Used to store auto parts back in the day. Now? Perfect for conversations like this. Quiet. Isolated. No one hears screams."

He had added the threat intentionally, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I scanned the room again, noting details of a faint drip from a pipe in the corner, the water pooling on the floor, the scuff marks near the door, a small vent high on the wall, too narrow to crawl through but maybe for sound.

"Screams? You don't strike me as the type to get your hands dirty without reason. What's the endgame, Echo? Money?"

He stood abruptly, pacing a slow circle around me, his boots thudding rhythmically. I twisted my head to follow, refusing to let him out of sight. "Smart girl. It's simple. Your brother, Zane's got something I want. Power to control this territory. The Atlas empire's got fingers in every shipment and investment. I want a piece. A big piece. He trades it for you, or..."

"Or what?" I pressed. Fear coiled in my gut, but I masked it with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of my head. "You will kill me? Come on, give me details. I'm curious to know how a guy like you ends up playing kidnapper? Was this hired or a personal stake?"

He stopped behind me, his gloved hand landing on my shoulder, squeezing just enough to make me tense. "Personal stake? Maybe. Zane's stepped on a lot of toes building that throne. Mine included. As for you... Let's say you're the leverage. Pretty face, losing you would break him."

"I see"

"And if he doesn't play ball?" His fingers tightened, sending pain shooting through my shoulder. "I'll make sure you regret being born a Calloway. We will start with the fingers, maybe. Or that flawless skin. Scars on a model's body don't photograph well on runways, right?"

I swallowed hard, the image of my hands mangled flashed through my head, which would leave my career in ruins. But I pushed back with words, "Fingers and skin ugh? Sounds quite messy. You're too clean for that. I See the tactical gear and modulator meaning you have a military background or are ex-special forces. Or are you just a wannabe playing dress-up?"

He released my shoulder with a shove, circling back to face me. The mask hid his expression, but his posture stiffened. Had I hit a nerve? "Wannabe? Cute. I have seen more action than your brother's cartel dreams. I have served in places that would make you puke. Now? I work freelance because it pays better. Why? Think you can talk your way out?"

I met his mesh gaze, unblinking. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like knowing my enemies. This warehouse, how long have you had it? Did you scout my penthouse too? That knock was precise. You knew I had opened for Damian."

He crossed his arms, leaning against the table. "Damian Pierce. Your knight in shining armor. Yeah, I know about him. That was sloppy of you, letting him get close. But useful since it keeps Zane off-balance. As for scouting... just a few days. Your routines are predictable, model girl. Fittings, photoshoots, that fancy car. Easy."

Days. The word chilled me. I had felt watched and had dismissed it as paranoia from the threats. "Who hired you? Vanessa's dead, I assume, after Woodley. Spill it, Echo. I'm tied up, what's the harm?"

He laughed, genuinely this time, the modulator warping it into something eerie. "Vanessa? That bitch was small-time. Stirred the pot, sure, but she's out. This? Bigger fish. Let's just say your brother's empire has cracks, and I'm the wedge. No, this is fresh blood. New player wanting in on LA's game."

New player.

I leaned forward, ropes chafing. "Fresh blood. Intriguing. What's their angle?"

He pushed off the table, closing the distance until his mask was inches from my face. I could smell the synthetic fabric, feel his breath through the mesh. "Personal because Zane took the territory from them. Doesn't matter. They want payback. And you were just the sweet famous bait."

I held his gaze, "And if Zane pays? You would let me walk? Or is this a setup to kill me anyway and frame someone else?"

He straightened, pacing again. "If he pays, you walk. I'm a professional, not a psycho. But if he stalls..." He trailed off, gesturing to the tools on the table. "We improvise."

"Professional. So, what's your story, Echo? How does a soldier end up kidnapping models?"

He stopped, turning sharply. "You talk too much." But there was a crack in his voice, the modulator failing to hide it fully. "Now I take jobs that pay. Simple."

I softened my tone, probing gently. "Lost someone close?"

"Shut up." He slammed a fist on the table, the tools rattling. But he didn't move away. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me."

"Why not? We're stuck here. Might as well chat. Are there any cameras in this room? Escape routes? Or are you flying solo?"

"Solo. No cams. Door's bolted, reinforced. No windows. You're not going anywhere, pretty face."

Solo. Perfect.

I filed it away. "Impressive setup. How long do you plan to keep me? Days? Weeks?"

"Long as it takes. Zane gets the demand soon. I will make the phone call. He trades, or..."

I nodded, feigning calm. "Or I suffer. Got it. But why me? Why not hit Zane directly?"

"You're softer and famous. The media frenzy that would follow if you vanished would pressure him."

"Fair. One more, why use the mask? Afraid I will recognize you?"

He chuckled darkly. "Smart. But no, the mask is insurance. Faces mean complications."

Finally, he stood. "Enough. Rest. Demands go out soon."

As he redid the blindfold, I whispered, "Echo? Thanks for the chat."

He paused, then tied it tightly. His footsteps retreated after slamming the door.

I was alone again. I exhaled shakily. Was I scared? Yes. But armed with knowledge. And hope that my brother and lover would rescue me before it was too late.