Igor opened it. One of his men stood there with a large suitcase. "Boss, your stuff," the man said respectfully.
Igor took the bag and set it by the entryway. Stella grabbed my hand and tugged me into the living room. "Let's build the castle!" she squealed.
She ran to her room, returned with a box of blocks, and we sat on the carpet to build. Igor joined us, watching, his expression unreadable. When the castle was halfway up, I rose to pick up a pair of tiny shoes in the hallway and knocked the suitcase.
It toppled. Clothes spilled out.
I crouched to gather them, and my hand froze. There, between men's shirts and a jacket, lay a champagne-silk nightgown I had thought lost. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Beneath it were my underwear.
Heat slammed into my face. I swung around to find Igor standing behind me.
"Igor," I said, my voice shaking—part shock, part shame. "You stole my clothes? You sick bastard!"
He walked toward me, eyes fixed on the nightgown. No shame, no embarrassment. His look flared hotter. "Put it down," he said low. "They're mine now."
"Why would you steal what I wore?" I demanded, cheeks burning.
He closed the distance until I had to tilt my chin up to see him. "You know why," he said, and his voice carried a dangerous honesty. "When I was following you, I used it to jerk off, then came on your pictures."
Air left my lungs so quickly my chest ached. Shame and exposure slammed into me. If some stranger had done this, I'd have been disgusted and furious, ready to call the police. But it was Igor. With him, it wasn't only revulsion—there was a complicated, dangerous heat that had nothing to do with legality.
"You..." I tried to speak, but the words stuck.
"I thought about you under me," he continued, voice dropping darker, "smelled you on the fabric so I could come faster."
He stepped closer, his heat pressing toward me.
"Elena," he said my name low, folding it into the room in a way that made my knees go soft, "tell me—these past five years, have you ever lain awake thinking of me and touched yourself to the thought of me?"
I opened my mouth to deny. To lie.
"Mom!" Stella's voice cut through the moment like a blade.
I spun away as if burnt. Stella stood on the carpet, clutching her teddy. "Mom, the castle fell," she said, small and upset.
"I'll be right there," I said, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "Mommy's going to take a quick bath and then we'll rebuild, okay?"
"Okay!" she cheered and sat back down.
I couldn't look at Igor. I snatched up the nightgown and panties and nearly ran to the bathroom. I slammed the door and leaned against it, trying to slow my breathing. In the mirror, my face was flushed, my eyes bright with something I didn't want to admit.
Damn Igor.
Because he was right. In those long nights over the past five years, I'd thought about him—about the way he'd been on top of me, his hands and mouth, how he'd left me wrecked. I had tried to bury it, but the memories were there.
And now he stood on the other side of the bathroom door with those memories in his pockets and a kind of dangerous pull I couldn'tseem to fight.
I turned the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, trying to wake up. But I knew—no matter how hard I tried—I couldn't pretend the entryway hadn't happened. I couldn't unhear what he'd said. I couldn't pretend the sick, complicated mix of shame and something else hadn't stirred in me.
Chapter Nineteen
Igor
The sound of water from the bathroom seeped through the crack in the door. I sat on the living room carpet and watched the little girl in front of me.
Stella was utterly absorbed in her blocks. She tried to balance a red piece on top of a blue one, and it toppled. She scrunched her nose—the exact expression Elena made—and my chest tightened.
"Need some help?" I asked.
