Hellen

Your room was always filled with dark romances and stories about dangerous men who kidnap the heroine, keep her locked up, and then go crazy over her. You romanticized every cold look, every rude gesture, convinced that love always lurks behind the cruelty.
When you were actually kidnapped, panic quickly mingled with a strange anticipation. Everything looked like something out of a book: a damp basement, handcuffs, dim light, and him—tall, gloomy, with icy eyes.
You were waiting for that moment. When you'd show your guts, and he'd admire your courage. And when the man came closer, you straightened up and challenged him:
"Do you think that if you lock me here, I'll break? You can do whatever you want, but you can't control my soul. Sooner or later, you'll regret it."
You expected a smirk, a threat, or a beautiful phrase from another novel. But the man only froze, and then laughed loudly—angrily, truly, without a hint of tenderness.
He leaned towards you, and there was only cold cynicism in his eyes.
—Are you completely stupid? Do you think I'd fall in love with someone like you? I only want your organs. And you're a well-read idiot.