A/N - I don't usually do short chapters, but Feebee has been ever so concerned for Sondra that I feel obliged to set her mind at rest, or not, as the case may be ...

-ooOoo-

Sondra smiled. A whispered purr of contentment escaped from her lips as she softened, feline-like, into the caress soothing her cheek, enjoying the warm sensation of skin against skin. It was as if she had been deprived of such sensory pleasure for days, weeks even. Another sigh, it felt wonderful. Consciousness pulled at her, but she resisted, these final moments of slumber too delicious to leave behind without a struggle. Yet the pull was too strong and reluctantly, she allowed herself to drift up and back into the world. Slowly, moment by moment Sondra became aware of her surroundings. The mustiness of the bed linen was first to register in her confused mind. The mattress also, it didn't feel right, her body seemed to ache from not being adequately supported. This bed couldn't be hers, where was she? The question hounded her as she searched for an answer she knew was within her reach but couldn't grasp. And then those fingers, they lacked the robust strength of her husband. Barrow boy hands, he described them. Can't take the East End out of the boy, he often said, sometimes in self-deprecating mitigation, sometimes with pride, sometimes with a degree of menace depending on who he was talking to. But while his hands may have given away Richard's origins, his brain and drive set him apart from those he had left behind in Bethnal Green. This hand, however, was lithe, the fingers slender and smooth, made for a man not made for manual or menial labour. Her eyes flickered but there was little but darkness, only the merest spots of light somewhere above her seemed to find a way in to the room, preventing her from being able to find a way out of this dream. Her breathing quickened, panic setting in. And then a voice, lightly accented.

"Hush, my darling. Hush"

Sondra's eyes flew open, staring upwards. Gradually she became accustomed to the specks of light illuminating the room, casting dark shadows. The inferiority of the mattress showed itself poorly, sagging submissively to one side beneath the weight of the possessor of that voice. She lay frozen. His name had been mentioned the day before, or the day before that, Sondra no longer knew what day it was, or indeed whether it was night or day. But she hadn't believed that he would really be here. He had been dead to her for so many years that it was impossible to truly believe that he could be alive, even less possible to think that he would be so close and the cause of such terror.

Sondra concentrated on her breathing, concentrated on not allowing the bile to rise from her stomach and into her mouth. He sighed and edged closer on the mattress, smoothing back the hair from her face, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. The scent of his cologne had taken over from the damp stench of the disgusting linen, a scent that took her back thirty years, unmistakeably his. Richard had worn something similar at the time, but in her care had evolved through the years. This man had not evolved, he was still part of that Autumn.

"Niko?" she finally whispered, hoarsely.

"Yes," he answered and she thought she detected some joy in her acknowledgement before he continued sorrowfully. "I am sorry for what you have been put through, my darling. I am sorry for what happened to the Fleischmann girl. That should not have happened. Unfortunately I left my associates to use their initiative and it was not as I would have wanted. They will be dealt with. Except Sergey of course. It would appear he has dealt with himself. I should have trusted my instinct with that one," he finished with a cold laugh that chilled her. He leant down and took her hand in his, she fought every impulse to recoil. "I waited so long for this, my darling Sondra. To feel you close to me, to hold your hand once again. Only this thought kept me alive for all those years of incarceration. Had I only thought of revenge I am sure I would not have lived to see this day." He raised her hand to his lips before bushing it against his smoothly shaven cheek and then back to his lips for a final feather-light kiss. The urge to claw at him was immense but Sondra knew she could not afford to anger him if she was to survive.

He replaced her hand by her side but did not let go. "I see that they have brought food to you, although," as he moved she heard the rustle of what she assumed to be another packet of stale sandwiches, "I would not allow my dogs to eat rubbish such as this. I will bring you something better, something that you will not be able to resist, I promise. I remember what you like!" He finished with what sounded like confident pride. "Try not to worry, I will look after you. Just as it should always have been." He rose and planted a kiss to her forehead, allowing her hand to remain at her side as his fingers ran the length of her arm. "I hope you will forgive me for leaving," he murmured apologetically, "but there is some business to which I must attend. I will not be long, and then ... and then we will begin again."

Sondra listened, still staring upwards, still holding back the urge to vomit, as he left the room. The door closed with a dull thud, a lock clicking into place from the outside, and once again she was alone. Rolling to her side, she pulled her knees tightly to her chest, more afraid than at any other time since this had all begun. While her abductors were anonymous monsters, somehow she felt that she had a chance, that a ransom would be demanded and paid. But knowing that the man who had orchestrated the ordeal was a man who had once professed to love her, to worship her but whom she had rejected and had now come back from the dead. What kind of man could he be? What kind of ransom would satisfy him? The answers were too terrifying to contemplate but impossible to ignore.