He clucks his tongue. “You have blood on you.”
I peer down at myself. The ridiculous maid costume remains mostly intact, though wrinkled and hiked up higher than it should be. Dark stains splatter the white apron. Benny’s blood. The substance is sprinkled over my arms, dried to a rusty brown. My stomach heaves at the sight, at the memory of Benny dying.
My entire being shudders. “Not by choice.”
He frowns. “You’re not getting my place all messy. Follow me.”
“Oh no, heaven forbid we get the blood of the man you murdered on your precious concrete.”
When he glares, I realize he heard my mumbles.
With a warning shake of his head, he leads me down a hallway to a door that opens into a bathroom that’s larger than my entire apartment. Slate, steel, and concrete dominate, with a shower stall big enough for eight people and a tub that could double as a small pool. A single towel hangs on a rack. Dark gray, just like everything else.
I wrinkle my nose. Monochrome much?
Not the colors I would choose to hide blood. Maybe this isn’t the spot where he slices his victims up and pours vinegar over their wounds.
Probably.
He turns the tap, and water thunders into the massive sink. He wets a dark gray washcloth, wrings the fabric out, and holds it out to me.
I stare at the cloth. At him. Wiggle my elbows. “Sweet of you to offer, but I can’t seem to use my hands.”
A flicker of understanding crosses his face. Then annoyance. He sets the washcloth on the counter.
“I’ll remove the restraints. But understand this,” his cold, certain eyes lock with mine, “if you try to run or fight, it won’t end well. There’s nowhere to go. No one to hear you. Just me and my extremely limited patience.”
Throat tightening, I nod in acquiescence, because what other choice do I have?
He positions himself behind me. When his chest grazes my back, awareness pulses through my body.
What the hell is wrong with me? His attractiveness and talent for kissing means nothing. Absolutely nothing. The man’s a murderer.
Awareness cedes to icy fear. I swallow down the rising panic.
His warm, steady breath skates over my neck. The contrast with my own ragged huffs is stark. Cold metal touches mywrists, and then the zip ties give way with a snap. Blood rushes back into my hands in waves.
Where was he keeping that knife? What else is he hiding under that leather jacket?
He edges back, tracking my movements while I wince and rub at the raw skin of my wrists. Without another word, he marches out, pulling the door partially closed behind him.
I snatch up the washcloth the second he’s gone, scrubbing at my skin with desperate energy. The water pinkens as I wash away Benny’s blood. As steam rises from the running water, I rinse out the cloth and scrub my face. My legs. Every exposed piece of skin.
Before I’m even halfway done, my bladder informs me it’s been through a hell of a workout tonight and won’t wait a second longer. I sit on the toilet and almost jump up again at the warmth coming from the seat. Several buttons line the side. And a remote hangs from the wall. The wordTotois elegantly engraved on the device.
Is this…a bidet? There’s a little dial for pressure. And even one for hot and cold.
I shove down the curiosity that’s rearing its ugly head. With everything I’ve survived tonight, I do not need to add using an ass washer for the first time to the list of strange occurrences. Nope. No ass washing for me.
Noises from outside the bathroom reach my ears.
My breathing starts to accelerate. My hands shake. In my utter terror, I hadn’t realized how cold I was.
Get it together, Aurora. Think.
First, I need off the damn toilet before Alexei comes back. Today’s quota for pain and humiliation has already been filled. For the next year.
Once I finish my business, I search the bathroom for weapons or escape routes. The window is tiny, barely bigenough to fit my head through, let alone my hips. The fixtures are all built-in and impossible to remove without tools. There’s nothing to use as a weapon except maybe the hand towels.
