Weeks
Five hours earlier
You were about to make a huge mistake.
When you arrived at Stark Tower, you acted as if everything was fine. As far as the rest of the people in the building were concerned, nothing was amiss. Tony had texted you again on your flight back home with a game plan. A number of people from his team were tracking down the backpack and scanning tapes of the break-in and he’d be meeting you in the apartment to assess damages and see if anything else was stolen. You’d move forward from there. New apartment arrangements, if you wanted. Though you were cool and collected on the outside, wading through the halls of Stark Tower in a pair of cheap, plastic, airport flip flops, you were counting your breaths to ensure you didn’t have a full-blown panic attack in front of everyone.
As the elevator doors closed, you had to correct yourself to keep from pressing the button leading to Loki’s floor. He hadn’t texted you once since that initial cab ride in Florida. It seemed he was finally willing to give you some space. It…It made you miss him. What had he been up to since then? Was he happy…? You hoped, in a pathetic way, that he wasn’t upset with you, though you doubted he’d be able to hide it if he was.
The elevator dinged as it opened, and you couldn’t help but look at the corridor leading to your apartment in a different light. The floor looked normal but felt so sinister with the knowledge that someone came up here and violated your living space. Just the thought of someone breaking in made you nauseous. You counted again, trying to steady your breaths. At least it was safe now, you thought as you reached for the door. Yes. Tony is inside right now with a team prepared to set things straight. Everything would be ok.
The lights were off when you entered. The apartment was quiet.
“Tony?”
You set your phone on the kitchen counter. They must be in the guest bathroom, you thought. Yeah, that would make sense…starting from the scene of the crime. You walked that way, calling for Tony again. No one answered. You hummed in annoyance.
The bathroom door pushed open with a swish, easy. Lights off. Empty. Your head tilted down and eyes went to the tile on the bathroom floor. Well, to be more specific, the in-tact tiles on the bathroom floor. You expected the floor to be busted up. That would be the only way to get to the backpack, breaking the floor apart. Did Tony get it repaired that quickly? It had only been three hours since the break in… No. It wasn’t possible.
A familiar voice sounded behind you.
“So it’s in here, huh?”
Your breath caught in your throat as you whipped around. You blinked in disbelief. A wave of nausea made impact on your stomach like a bird on a windshield.
“D-da—”
“Just tell me where it is so we can be done here, okay? No need to try and remember my name,” Darren said.
“Y-you—”
“You were looking down. So it must be in the floor, right?”
“You—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he said. “And listen to me before I have to hurt you. I’d like to make this as clean as possible.” You heard the latch on your front door shuck into place. Someone else was in your house. They just locked you inside. Your eyes darted over his shoulder. Darren snapped his fingers in front of your face. “Focus on me, Peach. Focus like your life depends on it. Which tile is the backpack under?”
How did he find out it was a backpack?
“No…No, T-Tony…Tony texted me…This doesn’t make sense… How did you—”
“Point out the tile,” he rasped. “This is your last opportunity before I do something truly devastating to that lovely bone structure of yours.”
Okay. Fair enough.
“Second tile from the left, touching the bathtub. There’s four of them, starting from there,” you said, sounding very far away. Darren shoved his way into the bathroom. Forgetting about the other person in your apartment, you turned to watch him as he knelt and pressed his ear to the ground. His knuckles rapped on the tiles you pointed out a few times, listening to ensure there was a hollow space underneath. There was.
“Ah, nicely done. And your tool?”
You pointed to the medicine cabinet.
“There’s a screwdriver in there,” you said.
“I was wondering what that was for! I figured you just got a lot of hair stuck in the drain…Wow,” he said, laughing lightly as if you were both friends. “I should have figured it out sooner. It seems so obvious now.”
Your mind flashed to the memory of fingerprints on your fridge after you specifically remembered cleaning the stainless steel. It seemed so long ago, but given the present circumstances, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been casing your apartment.
“Did you go in my fridge?”
“I was running out of leads. And hungry. Turns out you’re not worth much as a shopper though,” he said, turning back to the tile with the screwdriver in hand. “Guess you should be thankful no one’s here expecting you to be a homemaker, right? What a miserable guy that would be.”
The lighthearted, casual way he spoke struck a mournful nerve in your chest. The world went silent as you watched Darren raise the screwdriver over his head and strike down multiple times. The soles of your feet felt the vibrations of the impact. The impressive muscles in his back rippled as he clobbered the floor. Despite the unfortunately occupied apartment, you felt alone in the deepest, most unadulterated sense of the word. Every stitch of Stark Tower was dressed to the nines in security features. Alarms should be going off. Sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Blinds clamping shut. Someone should have been coming to rescue you, but the halls were quiet.
Where was Tony?
Finally, there was a crack in the tile big enough for him to fit his meaty hands through. He ripped the tiles back, opening the cubby as porcelain shards flung around the bathroom. You’d gone numb. Didn’t even flinch when one nicked your arm.
Where was Stephen?
Darren yanked the bag out of the hole in the ground, face split into a beautiful, untamed grin. His knuckles were white with the grip he had on it, even as he set it down, unzipped it, and dug through just to ensure the treasure he was after was really inside. It was. He turned to you, mouth moving as he zipped the pack closed. He was saying something. You couldn’t hear him. Your body was cold. Your eyes blurred.
Where was Loki?
His brows furrowed. His mouth moved again, slower this time. You were in shock. Cold tears rolled down your cheeks. He snapped his fingers again at you until you could hear, your head rearing in surprise from the sudden return of noise. The reality of your situation was closing in on you.
No one was coming for you.
It was a fact as hard and sturdy as wrought iron.
No one was coming for you.
“Hey, hey, can you hear me? You listening, girl?” He threaded his arm through the right shoulder strap of the pack and stood up.
“I—I can, um—”
“Listen: if you can’t keep your mouth shut about this, you understand there’s a lot of people who know your face that want this backpack, right?” He tilted his head. Now that the initial shock had passed, his cockiness and threats were starting to make you angry. You sniffled indignantly.
“I’m the only one who can access the files in there anyways. Everything is password protected, so why don’t you quit while you’re ahead and I’ll consider not advocating for prison. How about that, you skeevy little twerp?” Your jaw clamped shut, heat pulsing in your cheeks.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
You gulped.
“No, no, really. Say it again,” Darren said, lurching towards you. “I want to hear that pretty little mouth tell me exactly what I needed to hear.”
You shook your head. The blood drained from your face. You took a step back. The side of his fist slammed into the wall next to your head.
“ANSWER ME!”
You lunged for the backpack, ripping it from his shoulder, and took off at a sprint. Well, you thought you did, until Darren’s foot slipped around your ankle to trip you as you ran. The pain rippled through your elbows like a gong as you crashed to the floor. The backpack partly cushioned the right side of your ribs besides where the zipper poked harshly against bone.
His hands wrapped around your ankles and yanked you back. You clawed at the floor, trying to resist him, but he was significantly stronger than you.
He flipped you over and you tried to kick him in the balls but aimed too high, nailing him in the stomach instead. Darren doubled over, choking from the loss of breath, and swore. You scrambled to your feet, scooping up the backpack, and leapt forward.
He already had a hand locked into your hair. You would’ve fallen flat on your ass had Darren not taken the mercy of holding you up, swinging you around by the hair like a ragdoll until you were backed against the wall of your kitchen. He slammed the back of your head into the wall, forcing an unsteady grunt from your throat.
Despite knowing you were alone, you screamed for help. Darren’s forearm swiftly came over your mouth, stuffing deep into your maw like a horse’s bit. The sheer force made your jaw ache but you didn’t stop screaming. You tried to bite him so he’d back off, but the size of his arm made it impossible to get the upper hand. He didn’t even react to the pressure of your teeth against his skin.
“Even if someone were to hear you, which they won’t, do you really think you’d be alive by the time they got here?”
He didn’t take his arm back, even after you’d stopped screaming, until you gagged. By then, your chin and his arm were battered in drool. You swallowed. One of your hands gently pressed on his chest and the other laid over the hand of his that was woven in your hair.
“There’s cameras,” you panted. “They’ve seen your face.”
He looked over his shoulder towards your closed bedroom door, presumably at his unseen accomplice who, from the sound of it, was rifling through your drawers.
“You hear that? She said there’s cameras to catch us,” Darren chortled. Whoever he’d brought snorted but said nothing. Before he could turn to face you again, you tried to shove him away, eyes locked on the backpack which laid on the floor near the couch.
He delivered a brutal knee strike to your liver, a haggard cry erupting from your chest as the pain bloomed in your stomach. It was pure fire, your thighs trembling, begging to give out. You’d leaned into your attacker, who did the great kindness of holding you up. You wheezed hoarsely, lungs locked up. Your mouth gaped open and shut, pathetically, like a fish out of water. Without even laying a finger on your throat, he’d managed to strangle you.
“Quit fucking running from me,” he bellowed. With each word, he used his grip in your hair to jostle your head, as if he could shake his logic into your mind. He got closer and closer by the breath. You were getting dizzy and the foam spewing from his lips was misting your cheeks. It reeked of cheese whiz and saltines. “You had so much potential to be a good fighter… You’ve got the fight of a lifetime staring you in the face and all you want to do is run.”
“Stop,” you breathed. The shock took him aback for a moment before he rolled his eyes and slammed your head into the wall again, the drywall molding around the shape of your skull with an unsettling crunch. A cold fog swelled over your vision.
“Stop? Stop?! Are you fucking serious?! Who are you? Huh?” He used your real name, mocking the sound of it. “What a massive disappointment you’ve turned out to be. You gave the backpack up before I could land a single punch. You told me where to find your family after one text. You showed your hand every step of the way after countless opportunities to turn this fight into a win.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“To think Tony ever trusted you.”
“Please don’t do this to me.” Your body vibrated as you tried to keep from losing it.
“Stupid fucking bitch… Do you even remember how to knock someone out, Peach? Do you? Did that dense little cashew behind your eyes retain a fucking syllable I said when I tried to train you?”
“Uppercut,” you said, voice ragged. He let your hair go. The relief was so intense it sent goosebumps down your neck.
“That’s right, baby,” Darren said, holding your cheek in his hand as he feigned pride at your correct answer. “A fucking uppercut.”
The crack of his fist against your jaw when he executed the uppercut was like nothing you’d ever heard—so nauseating it was erotic—like a hollow bomb sounding off in your skull. There was blackness as your legs buckled from underneath.
That was three weeks ago.