I couldn't do this again. Couldn't let someone see that soft, small part of me that craved safety and structure and someone to make the world feel manageable. That part was dangerous.
Sergei's face flashed in my memory. The way he'd smiled when I was Little. The way he'd held me while he died.
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the window glass, felt the cool smooth surface, breathed slowly, named things I could see. Trees. Brownstones. Cars. Dogs. The sky.
I turned away from the window. Surveyed the room again. Looking for anything useful. Anything that might help meescape or defend myself or understand what the hell Nikolai Besharov wanted with me.
He'd bid two million dollars. Then Anton Belyaev had bid higher. Then Nikolai had started to bid again right before the explosion.
The Belyaevs wanted me. Wanted me badly enough to violate sacred ground, to murder Yevgeny Sidorov, to start a war with all five families.
Why? What made me worth that much?
The ensuite bathroom door stood slightly ajar. My bladder reminded me I'd been unconscious for hours. Basic needs didn't care about captivity.
The bathroom was all marble and chrome, the kind of space that belonged in luxury hotels or architectural magazines. Rain shower with multiple heads. Soaking tub deep enough to drown in. Heated floors warm under my bare feet—someone had turned them on.
I took care of basic needs quickly, hyperaware of being vulnerable even though I was alone, even though the bedroom door was locked from the outside. Old habits. Growing up in my father's world taught you that privacy was an illusion and safety was temporary.
I washed my hands with soap that smelled like cedar and something citrus. Expensive. Everything here was so damn expensive.
Fluffy white towels hung on heated racks. A silk robe in dove grey hung on a hook by the door, my size, like everything else in this place. On the counter, a stack of clothes: black leggings, soft t-shirts in grey and white, a hoodie in charcoal. All folded precisely.
I picked up one of the t-shirts. Felt the fabric between my fingers. Probably organic cotton or some boutique brand. Thesize tag said small. I was a small. The leggings were size four, twenty-five-inch inseam. That was my size exactly.
I set the shirt down. Moved along the counter. More toiletries in expensive packaging. Shampoo and conditioner, some French brand I'd seen in Sephora and never been able to afford. Face wash. Moisturizer. A hairbrush with natural bristles. A toothbrush still in its package, toothpaste that promised whitening and sensitivity relief.
Everything I might need. Everything chosen carefully. Everything a little too perfect.
My practical side kicked in. I started searching.
The drawers first. Looking for anything useful. A razor I could use as a weapon. Medication I could stockpile in case I needed leverage or escape options. Scissors. Tweezers. Anything sharp or valuable or potentially dangerous.
Top drawer: more toiletries. Face masks, sheet masks, some kind of jade roller I didn't understand the purpose of. Second drawer: hair ties, clips, a silk scrunchie that probably cost twenty dollars. Third drawer: feminine hygiene products, variety pack, like he'd anticipated everything.
Bottom drawer was locked. I tried it twice. Definitely locked.
Which meant whatever was in there was either very valuable or very dangerous. Probably medication. Possibly weapons. Definitely something he didn't want me accessing.
I moved to the medicine cabinet above the sink. Basic first aid supplies. Band-aids, antibiotic ointment, ibuprofen, acetaminophen. Nothing prescription. Nothing useful for escape or self-defense.
The cabinets under the sink were next. I knelt, careful of my bad knee, and opened the doors.
Spare toilet paper. Extra towels. A first aid kit—larger than the one in the medicine cabinet, probably for actual emergencies.
And behind the toilet paper, shoved toward the back like someone had hidden them but not well enough.
Children's bubble bath.
The bottle was purple plastic, shaped like a cartoon octopus with big friendly eyes. The label promised "tear-free formula" and "lavender vanilla scent for bedtime." The kind of thing you bought for toddlers or—
Or Littles.
My hands started shaking.
I reached deeper into the cabinet. Pulled out more items my brain couldn't process, couldn't accept, couldn't—
Soft washcloths. White with little yellow ducks embroidered in the corners. The kind Sergei used to buy me. The kind that felt safe against my face when I was Little and everything was too much.
