A rubber ducky. Bright yellow, classic style, the kind that squeaked when you squeezed it. I squeezed it without thinking. The squeak was cheerful, innocent, devastating.
I dropped it. Reached further back. Found the last item.
A sippy cup.
Pink. With handles on both sides. The lid had a soft spout, the kind designed so Little ones couldn't spill when they were regressed and clumsy and needed someone to take care of them.
I stared at it. The pink plastic. The careful design. The way it was exactly the kind of cup Sergei used to give me when I was deep in Little space and regular cups felt too big, too adult, too hard.
My hands were shaking violently now. The sippy cup rattled slightly. I set it down on the tile floor before I dropped it.
He knew.
Nikolai Besharov knew what I was. What I had been. What I couldn't ever be again.
Little items. Comfort items. Things meant to make regression easier, safer, more appealing. Things designed to coax out the soft, small part of me I'd buried under three years of armor and survival.
I backed away from the cabinet. Couldn't look at the items. Couldn't process what they meant. My back hit the towel rack. The warm metal felt real against my spine. Grounding. I counted to four. Then again. Then again.
It didn't help.
How did he know? I'd spent three years hiding it. Three years staying big, staying alert, staying armored every single minute. I'd never told anyone. Never slipped. Never let anyone see.
But he'd seen it anyway. On that stage. In those thirty seconds before the explosion. He'd looked at me and seen the thing I'd buried deepest.
Memory hit like a fist.
Sergei taking me to a store in Manhattan. One of those boutique places that sold DDlg items, discreetly, expensively. He'd bought me a sippy cup almost identical to this one. Pink with handles. I'd protested—said I didn't need it, said it was silly, said I was fine with regular cups.
He'd smiled. Patient. Knowing. "It's not about need, it's about comfort. About letting yourself be small and safe."
I'd used that cup every day for two years. Until the night he died in my lap and I threw it away along with everything else that reminded me of Little Sophie.
My throat was tight. Eyes burning. I blinked hard. Forced the tears back. Couldn't cry. Crying was for Little Sophie and she didn't exist anymore. Couldn't exist anymore.
I shoved the items back into the cabinet. The bubble bath. The washcloths. The rubber ducky. The sippy cup. Pushed them toward the back, behind the toilet paper, tried to make them disappear.
Slammed the cabinet door.
It echoed in the marble space. Too loud. My breathing was too loud. Everything was too loud.
I stood on shaking legs. Moved to the sink. Gripped the edge of the counter. Stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Pale face. Dark circles under grey-green eyes. Hair tangled. Still wearing the grey auction dress that made me look like property.
"I'm not that anymore," I whispered to my reflection. My voice cracked. "I'm not. I can't be."
Little Sophie was dangerous. Little Sophie got people killed. Little Sophie had been in Sergei's lap, safe and small and completely unaware of the danger, when the bullets came through the window.
The lock clicked. I spun, heart slamming against my ribs, and pressed my back against the bathroom doorframe.
Nikolai Besharov entered carrying a breakfast tray like this was normal. Like I wasn't a prisoner. Like he hadn't bought me at an auction and locked me in his compound.
He was different in daylight. Taller than I'd realized—maybe six-three—with broad shoulders and a lean build that suggested strength without bulk. He wore dark jeans and a fitted black henley that showed he was strong, capable, the kind of body that came from discipline rather than vanity. His dark hair was slightly damp like he'd showered recently. Clean-shaven. Put together.
And handsome. Irritatingly handsome. Dangerously handsome.
I hated that I noticed. Hated the way my brain cataloged details—the sharp line of his jaw, the way the henley fit across his chest, the economical grace in his movements. This was my captor. My buyer. The man who'd killed three people last night and thrown me over his shoulder like property.
