Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I

▪️◼️Chapter Nineteen◼️▪️

⚠️Matute Content - TW⚠️

A tremor pulses through my body at the sound of my kidnapper's voice disrupting the strained quiet of the car.

"Why do you do it?" He asks.

I can hear tension in his voice. It's raspy and crackles through the silence the way a voice sounds breaking through the static on an old radio. He's been on edge—more so than usual—ever since he got back into the car.

My head swivels toward him, startled.

Neither of us has spoken for over an hour now.

I'm surprised he's the one to break the silence first.

"Why do I do what?" I ask.

I eye his profile as he drives. I can feel stress rolling off of him in waves.

He's frustrated again but I have no idea why.

I'm beginning to learn that his anger comes and goes.

Up and down.

Hot and cold.

His colorful eyes flick to me for an imperceptible moment before falling back on to the road.

He clears his throat and cracks his neck side to side as if he's uncomfortable.

It's out of character for him. I've never seen him anything but poised.

I shoot him a strange look.

"Selling yourself for pleasure." He clerifies.

Oh.

My face falls.

"I..." My lips part unsure of how to respond to that. I turn my attention back out the windshield as I think through my answer.

The cityscape has changed from industrial warehouses to rivers of roadways and skyscrapers lining the horizon. Soon we will be passing the heart of the city.

The weather has become even more gloomy and looks as if it it might start to rain.

I swallow hard.

"I- I don't."

I watch as his eyes become slivers of thick dark lashes as his bushy eyebrows tighten and his eyes narrow. He doesn't believe me.

My stomach does a sickening roll seeing his obvious distaste. It's exactly the reaction I was expecting but it still sucks.

It's fine, I'm used to it. I tell myself. I don't have to prove myself to him.

"You were hired by Vladimir were you not?" He presses me for more information. He seems to be struggling with getting the words up his throat and out of his mouth without growling. It's obviously not a conversation he's comfortable with having, so why are we? "You've worked with him for a couple of years now. He pays for your apartment and for your lifestyle, yes?" His accent is heavier than normal and the inflection in his tone raises with the last word.

If by lifestyle he means beating me to oblivion and starving me of not only food but also my dignity, then yes, that is true. My lips pinch with distaste causing a frown to over take my solemn expression.

"Vladimir owned me. It wasn't by choice." I grumble, hating this conversation. And hating him for starting it.

"What do you mean owned you?" He asks skeptically.

I fold my arms across my chest and lean my head back to deflate against the seat as I peer out the window. My words are clipped, defensive, when I finally answer.