Endless Love

Chapter One

Charlotte

When I wake up, for a moment, I have no idea where I am.

My head aches. I don’t usually drink enough to get a hangover, but once or twice I’ve ended up with one, and this feels worse than that ever did. As soon as I open my eyes, a bright sliver of light stinging them and adding to the sharp pain, I close them just as quickly.

But that can’t change the fact that I know I’m somewhere other than where I should be. I should be in my apartment, at home, in my own bed. Wherever I am, it’s not there—this place smells wrong, clean in an antiseptic way, almost hospital-like, but not quite. Empty, like too-filtered air. Nothing like the soft lavender scent of the room spray I use at home, usually underlaid with the scents of lemon and basil from my cleaning products. The sheets and blanket feel stiff, nothing like the soft, cozy bedding I have at home.

I’m afraid to open my eyes and find out, because then I’m going to have to accept that something has happened. That the man in my apartment, the sudden pressure on my throat, everything swirling dark—that wasn’t all some awful dream.

That text from Nate’s brother must not have been a dream either, then.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to get that picture out of my head. But I can’t. Nate, bloody and stripped naked, a message carved into his chest. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing, and why. Nate is an asshole, a pretentious dick with an overinflated sense of self, who thinks he can justify having cheated on me with excuses about respecting me too much to ask for what he wanted in bed. 

But I can’t imagine what would have warranted that. A level of violence I’ve never really imagined existing outside of fiction.

Was it him? Venom? I feel a stab of guilt, thinking that my online fantasies might have led to this. I’m furious with Nate, and I don’t want him back in my life, but that doesn’t mean that I wanted—that to happen to him.

I’m not sure I want that to happen to anyone.

Oh god, is that going to happen to me?

A flare of panic jolts through my chest. I have to open my eyes. I have to be brave, and find out what’s happened. 

For a moment, just before I open them, I have a brief flicker of hope that maybe I really did imagine it. That maybe I’m imagining all the sensory cues that tell me that I’m not in my bedroom, at home.

I blink, letting the light flood in, and all that hope is dashed.

I’m in a hotel room. That much is immediately obvious. A fairly mid-grade one, too, from the looks of it. The bed is covered with a stiff floral-pattern duvet that could have been put in here anytime in the last two decades, and the floor is covered in a beige shag carpet. The walls are cream, the furniture dark pressed wood. There’s two small lamps hooked on either side of the bed, their push-button switches underneath the only nod to modernity.

There’s no phone. I notice that almost immediately, and I push myself upright, that flare of panic worsening. There are always phones in hotel rooms. Always. Someone has removed this one.

I press a hand to my chest as my heart starts to beat faster. The memories of last night come flooding in again, pushing me closer to the edge of what I think might be an oncoming panic attack. I don’t know. I’ve never had one before. The closest I think I might have come was the night I found out Nate cheated on me. I’ve never lived the kind of life that causes panic attacks.

I didn’t realize just how lucky I was until this moment.

I’ve been so stupid. I thought there was no way Venom could find me in real life. No way my fantasies could track me down. I thought I was safe, because I knew enough about the internet to cover my tracks. I work in tech, for fuck’s sake.

But he must have been better. Good enough to find me. Obsessed enough to come after me.

I shouldn’t have gone home after getting that text about Nate. I should have gone to Jaz’ house. Gone to a hotel. Anything other than walking into my apartment alone, where a man in a mask was waiting to grab me.

Gingerly, I reach up and touch the spot on my neck that’s still sore. He must have known where to find a pressure point. At least he didn’t drug me. The thought makes me let out a choked, near-hysterical laugh—because I can’t believe that’s legitimately something that just went through my head. That something has happened to make that a reasonable thing for me to think.

My clothes are still on, too. Another good thing. I push the duvet back, frowning as it occurs to me that not only did he not strip me, he—tucked me in?

I was stalked, knocked out, kidnapped, taken to a hotel in god knows where—and then respectfully tucked in with all of my clothes still on until I woke up. 

Something feels off about all of this.

Gingerly, I swing my legs out of bed, remembering that I had my phone and purse when I walked into the apartment. I might have dropped them when I was grabbed, but that doesn’t stop me from starting to look for them anyway—in the drawer next to the bed, around the desk, the chair, even in the drawers of the dresser. But there’s nothing. Just my shoes, which he did take off and set next to the bed.

It’s then that I realize the shower is running. 

I glance at the digital clock next to the bed—it’s seven in the morning. Assuming I’m still in the same time zone, no one from work, or Jaz, will have noticed I’m gone yet. The only clue that Jaz might have that something is wrong would be that I didn’t text her last night that I made it home.

Carefully, I get up, trying not to make any sound as my feet hit the carpet. My mouth feels dry, and my head still hurts, a dull ache at the base of my neck that makes me reach back and press my fingers against it, wishing for some kind of painkiller.

But I need to try to get out of here. As far as I know, there’s no way to lock a hotel room door from the inside to prevent someone getting out—

I try the door handle, and it doesn’t budge. I stare at it for a long moment, trying to figure out how that’s possible. There’s something next to the door, a small black box—

Close to frantic, now, I dig at the side of it with my nails, trying to pry it off. It won’t come loose, and I feel my pulse racing faster, my eyes starting to burn with frustrated tears as I yank at the door handle again. Short of pounding on the door with my fists and screaming, I don’t know what else to do. 

Pivoting, I look towards the window. How high up are we? I cross the room as quickly as I can, the carpet muffling my footsteps, and lean up against the window, looking down.

We’re on at least the second floor, maybe higher. There’s nothing beneath the window but asphalt. If I could get the window open, I wouldn’t make it out of that fall unscathed. I’d probably hurt myself badly enough that I wouldn’t be able to get help before he got to me again—or even if someone saw me, I might hurt myself badly enough that it wouldn’t be worth it.

I want to get out of here. I don’t want to end up paralyzed or permanently damaged doing it.

What do people do in situations like this? I don’t know. I don’t watch true crime or read the kind of books that would tell me the answer to that. I’m trapped, and the sense of panic builds until my thoughts feel foggy, that pounding, dull pain at the back of my head only getting worse—

The sound of the shower switches off.

Fuck. I swallow hard, spinning to face the bathroom door, my hands gripping the windowsill behind me as I look frantically around for something to use as a weapon. I don’t want to be defenseless. I don’t want—

The door opens, and I brace myself, ready to scream.

My mouth drops open, but no sound comes out as I see Ivan, standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips.