He walks over, pulls it free, and tucks it back into his waistband. “Whoever’s playing with me should get ready to lose.” He takes one step toward me.
Up close, I see the fine tremors in his muscles. There's a faint sheen at his hairline. I touch his shirt. The fabric is damp with old sweat. His body stiffens all at once. He stays close, but everything in him locks down.
“What did they do to you?”
“Not enough,” he grunts, but his jaw jumps. He looks past me to the far wall, then away from that too. “Not nearly enough. I'm going to take a shower. Wash their dirt away.”
He turns and stalks toward the bathroom. When I follow him inside, he's already pulling off his clothes. Our eyes meet in the mirror. I think about asking if he needs help, but I don't. He's a predator, tossed back in his prison, and right now he's holding himself together.
I've been tossed in a prison. Am I angry? I should be. Dad wrecked my life with one call. Tonight I should be in a hospital, working, not locked in a mansion with Viktor Morozov.
The light in here is harsher than the bedroom. I watch as his naked skin shifts. He grips the sink and bows his head. His shoulders bunch so tight they look carved. The muscles in his forearms stand out as he leans on his own weight.
“Viktor—”
“Don’t.” He steps into the shower.
Water runs over his shoulders and down his back, tracing muscle and tension. It catches in his hair. Dark strands plaster to his neck as he dips his chin to his chest, letting it hit him full-on. His palms come up to the wall, fingers spread, elbows locked. The bear tattoo on his chest darkens under the spray, shifting with each controlled breath. He looks exposed like this.
I watch the water run over him, trying to read what it left behind. I don't want to interfere. I don't want to save him. I just want to stay close enough that whatever he's carrying doesn't vanish behind closed doors again. The truth lands without warning. I wasn't worried out of obligation. Somewhere in the quiet, he stopped being a man I was assigned to and became someone I couldn't stop tracking in my head.
On impulse, I kick my shoes off and step in behind him. The water is hot enough to sting. I slide my fingers over his shoulders. His skin jumps under my touch.
“Jonah,” he warns.
“I just want to wash you. Please.”
Steam blurs the room, and water pounds against the tile.
“Tell me something, krasavchik. Why are you still here?”
“What do you mean? They've locked me up with you.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” His gaze pins mine. “You should be afraid. So why aren't you?”
I swallow. Fear has been my baseline for as long as I can remember. Fear of loving a father who made it clear I was disposable. Fear of staying close to a man with enough power to erase me if he chose to.
“I—I don't know.”
His fingers catch my chin and tip it up, forcing me to face him. “Liar.”
“Sometimes lying is safer than feeling the truth.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
“Here.” He presses the shower gel into my palm. “You wanted to wash me.”
I hesitate. It feels like crossing a line. But I've crossed so many since the night I was dragged into this house that I've lost count. I don't know where the edges are anymore. I slide my slick palms over his shoulders. The scent of roses fills the bathroom.
When my hands cross a bruise, his breath jerks. I don't hear it over the water, but I feel his chest press into my palms. My hands keep moving, and he stays right where he is.
“What happened?” I ask, sliding the gel over his chest.
His hand snaps up around my wrist, hard enough to jolt my pulse. “You don't want to know.” He turns me and pins my back to the cool, wet tile. His forearm locks across my chest, a bar of muscle holding me in place. He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Not if you ever want to leave this house with a clean conscience.”
“I'm not scared of you,” I say, even as my voice shakes.
“Yes, you are.” Steam fills the space, blurring the edges of the room. Viktor doesn't look at me. He looks past me. “And you should be. In this world, mercy is just a word for people who don't know they've already lost.”
My hand curls at my side. “That isn't how it's supposed to work.”
