Baba Yaga
Enzo 11:15AM -Lola’s Apartment; tied up on the end of the bed
The apartment smelled like citrus and honeysuckle, with a warm hint of brown sugar — like a feminine old-fashioned cocktail left on a sunlit porch. It didn’t smell like a kill room. It smelled like her.
Looking less and less like a hit. She has a stuffed bat in pajamas sitting on by her pillow. Not very threatening.
Enzo shifted against the ropes, adjusting his weight with a low grunt. His body ached, six-foot-four and this damn bed forced him into a slight curl, if he stretched out he would fall off the bed but wouldn’t get very far since he’s strung between both posts. The restraints didn’t bite his skin, but the knots-they weren’t amateur work.
How the hell did that small woman tie these intricate knots? It’s ok you’ve escaped worse, never restrained like this but I can get out of this. Eventually.
The door opened.
Keys. Footsteps. Grocery bags rustling.
“Lola? I brought your orange blossom tea you like—”
Silence.
Enzo turned his head.
A small, white-haired woman stood in the doorway, staring at him like he was a cat on the counter—not supposed to be there, but not surprising either.
Ok, she doesn’t look threatening. Surely this woman will untie someone who clearly doesn’t want to be tied up.
She wore a faded hoodie that read:
WORLD’S OKAYEST GRANDMA.
And didn’t look alarmed in the slightest.
“…You must be the reason she ran out in such a damn hurry,” the woman muttered, setting her bags down. “Huh.”
Enzo arched a brow. “You don’t seem surprised at finding someone tied up to the bed.”
“Boy with the life I’ve lived nothing phases me.”
“She tied me up.”
She squinted at the bedposts, inspecting the knots with a slow, impressed nod. “Yeah, I can tell.”
“Could you untie me?”
“Mm. Probably,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. “But I’m not going to.”
“…Excuse me?”
What in the actual fuck? You have got to be kidding me. WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE?
“Relax, handsome. If she left you like that, she must’ve had her reasons.”
“She drugged me and kidnapped me.”
“You’re six-four, what — 230? And she weighs, what, a buck twenty soaking wet?”
The woman snorted. “And she tied you up?”
“I don’t remember how it happened.”
“Well, the drug part doesn’t sound like her. But the knots?” She pointed at him with a wooden spoon. “Those are mine.”
His jaw twitched. “What?”
“I taught her. Used to run the most exclusive brothel in Las Vegas back in the day. Politicians, celebrities, billionaires — if they wanted company, they came to me. Tying up dangerous men willing or un? Occupational hazard. Taught Lola everything I know. These knots have seen senator’s cry.”
Enzo blinked.
Now she was frying eggs.
“Now I knit,” she added, as if that explained everything. “But I still keep an eye on her. Never had much in the way of family, so I do my part. You want toast?”
He didn’t answer.
She made it anyway.
A few minutes later, she returned with a plate of eggs and toast, then settled onto the bed beside him with a grunt.
“You’re going to eat,” she said.
“I’m tied up.”
She shoved a forkful toward his mouth. “Exactly. Open.”
He hesitated.
Then opened his mouth.
The eggs were... good. Stupidly good. Rich and buttery. A punch of salt and pepper. Comfort food.
“I’m Dotka,” she said. “Lola calls me Baba Dotka. Don’t ask me why. Says I look sweet but I’m terrifying. Can’t argue.”
Enzo chewed in silence as she fed him another bite.
What am I doing?
“She’s a good one,” Dotka continued, her voice softening. “Took her in when she was nine years old. Orphaned. Lost. Smart as hell. Quicker with her hands than most grown men. I saw what the world would try to do to a girl like her. Decided to make sure it didn’t.”
Another bite.
“She’s had shit taste in men, though. Her ex? A real piece of work. Smiled like a used car salesman and lied like one, too. Made her feel like she couldn’t trust anyone, which ended up happening and then made her look like a fool after he got her isolated from everyone. And you damn kids don’t listen to anyone.”
Enzo said nothing. He didn’t know how.
Dotka stared at him, her eyes sharp as razors beneath the bifocals. Then her gaze softened just a hair.
“You from around here?”
“Yes and no.”
“Hmm, you don’t flinch like a man with small problems.”
He stiffened.
She noticed.
“Whoever you are, whatever mess you were in before this, you walked into something else here. Just be careful, sweetheart. You might not know what to make of her, but she’s had enough people treat her like collateral damage.”
She handed him a piece of toast.
He glanced at it. “How am I supposed to—”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” she huffed, breaking it into pieces and feeding it to him like a sullen toddler. “You act like you wouldn’t be able to eat it, you’re not that immobile.”
“I don’t usually find myself tied up.”
If I do then we severely fucked up.
“Well,” she said, “maybe you should. Builds character.”
Dotka wiped her hands on her hoodie, then leaned back against the bedpost, eyes still locked on him like a hawk sizing up a coyote in her chicken coop.
“You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t talk like a man used to explaining himself. Or asking permission. Or answering to anyone at all.”
Enzo didn’t reply. Just stared back at her, unreadable.
This old woman is very intuitive.
“I’ve seen that look before,” she continued. “Men who walk into my parlor thinking they own the world. They don’t smile much. Don’t blink much either. Calculating types. The kind that come from money, maybe. Or war. Or both.”
Very intuitive indeed.
She squinted at him. “So, which is it, sweetheart? Are you the wounded kind? Or the dangerous kind?”
He tilted his head slightly, lips pressed in a faint, mirthless curve. “Can’t I be both?”
Dotka gave a sharp laugh and slapped his shoulder like they were old drinking buddies. “Oh, I like you.”
He didn’t flinch at the contact, but he didn’t smile either. He simply observed, storing everything — her movements, her tone, her timing. The same way he’d mapped out the rest of this glitter-soaked prison.
She narrowed her eyes again. “But see, that’s the part I don’t get. You don’t seem scared. Most men tied to a stranger’s bed would be sweating bullets, screaming for help, or trying to chew through rope. You? You’re quiet. Watching. Like a man deciding if he wants to burn the building down or make it his new base of operations.”
Enzo’s mouth quirked just slightly. “Maybe I’m just polite.”
She snorted. “Uh-huh. And I’m a virgin.”
She stood with a groan, dusted crumbs off her pants, then looked down at him again.
“Whatever brought you here, I hope it’s not something you’ll drag across her floor. Lola’s got a good heart. Big one, buried under enough barbed wire to scare most men off.”
Enzo didn’t respond.
“She’s not delicate, mind you. She’s meaner than she looks. Bitey, too. But she’s had to be. Life didn’t hand her anything easy.”
Dotka walked to the kitchen, returned with a tall glass of water, and carefully brought it to his lips. Enzo drank, watching her over the rim.
“You got a name, mystery man?”
He raised a brow. “Would it matter?”
Dotka smirked. “Not unless I’m writing your obituary.”
She turned, grabbing her keys off the hook by the door.
“You need anything before I go?”
“Freedom.”
She winked. “Try again.”
He sighed. “No.”
“Alright then,” she called over her shoulder, opening the door. “If you’re still here when Lola gets back, try not to kill her. I’m pretty fond of her.”
She stepped into the hallway, then poked her head back in one last time.
“Oh — and I’m making stew for dinner. If you’re still tied up by then, I’ll bring you a bowl.”
Then she was gone. Door shut. Locks clicked.
Enzo lay there in the low amber light of the fairy lights and sunlight haze, listening to the soft hum of the fridge, the distant echo of traffic below…
…and the quiet tick of his patience thinning.
Who the fuck are you, Lola?
And why the hell do I feel like I’ve just been… claimed?