The realization makes me feel sick all over again.
I stay in the bath until the water starts to cool, until my fingers are pruny and my skin is pink from the heat. I can't stay in here forever, no matter how much I want to hide from reality.
Finally, I force myself to stand, the water sluicing off my body as I step out onto the bath mat. There are towels on a heated rack, which is a luxury I don’t want to appreciate but do. I pull one down. It's thick and soft and I wrap myself in it, feeling my throat burn.
I dry off slowly and methodically, trying not to think or feel anything at all. When I'm dry, I wrap the towel around myself and look in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger—pale and hollow-eyed, my hair damp and tangled. I look like a shell of myself right now, and I wonder how long, exactly, I’ve looked like this. Like this thing with Ilya is draining me dry.
I open the bathroom door, and steam follows me out into the bedroom. The air is cooler, and I shiver despite the towel. Then, as I look toward the bed, I freeze in my tracks.
There are clothes laid out on the bed. Not just any clothes—not Ilya’s loungewear repurposed for me or some other woman’s ill-fitting clothes, but ones that look as if they’ve been selected just for me. A cashmere sweater in deep gray. Soft leggings in black, black knit, plush socks. Silky black underwear in a bikini style with a lace edge. A black lace bralette.
And all of it has tags still attached. It’s brand new, and it looks as if it was purchased specifically for me.
I pick up the sweater and check the size. It's perfect. Exactly right. The leggings too, and the underwear. Everything is exactly my size.
The realization hits me like a physical blow.
He's been planning this.Planning to bring me here. He had clothes waiting, knew my exact size, knew what I'd like. This wasn't a spontaneous decision made in the chaos of tonight. This was premeditated.
He knew I'd end up here… knew he'd bring me to his penthouse eventually. And he prepared for it.
I remember the rose in my bedroom. He must have gone through my things. My clothes, my underwear, memorized everything I wear and the correct sizes. This is a stunning violation of my privacy, an intrusion beyond anything I’ve ever experienced in my entire life, and yet…
It feels strangely, almost uncomfortably like… being cared for.
He paid attention to what I like, what would make me comfortable. He thought about what I'd need. He remembered my sizes. Considered what I’d like best and wanted to make sure it fit, that it suited me.
But he also assumed I'd be here—that he'd get me here one way or another.
The presumption of it, the arrogance, makes anger start to burn through the shock.
How dare he?How dare he plan my life like this, make decisions about my future, prepare for my presence in his home like it was inevitable?
My jaw clenches as I stand there shivering in the towel, the heat long since gone from it. I should refuse to wear the clothes. Demand my own things, anything except accept what he's laid out for me.
But… I’m cold. I don’t want to argue with him in nothing but a towel. I can’t exactly just put my old clothes back on; they’re covered in blood.
I make a snap decision, drop the towel and start getting dressed, my movements sharp and angry. The underwear slides over my skin, decadent silk and lace that feels as if he bought it for me with lascivious things in mind. I can feel my skin heating as I put it on, and a flash enters my mind of what his face might look like if he saw me in this.
What did he do while he watched me? Did he ever…
The thought of Ilya watching me at the windows, touching himself while he did so, doesn’t disgust me the way it should. It doesn’t make me as angry or as afraid as it should. I feel all of those emotions: fear, anger, a crawling sense of unease and shame… but also something else, too.
This powerful, wealthy man, this man who could have anyone he wants, has been watching me. Desiring me. Plotting out how to welcome me into his home. He’s been in my apartment, in my bedroom; his hands have been all over my things. He might have pleasured himself watching me, gotten off to the thought of having me…
Despite myself, I feel a jolt of arousal, spiking between my thighs and sending prickles of desire over my skin. I feel hot, damp between my thighs, restless and suddenly aching for something that I don’t entirely understand.
I’m no stranger to sex, but this doesn’t feel like your run-of-the-mill hookup. This feels like something devastating and undeniable andmore.
I grab the leggings, yanking them on, trying to ignore how buttery and soft they feel against my skin. The sweater is impossibly luxurious, and even the socks make me wiggle and curl my toes inside of them, savoring the sensation of the soft knit against my feet.
Everything fits perfectly. Everything feels good against my skin. It’s as if he really does know me, his choices exactly right. I feel almost comforted, cared for, and I have to fight the urge to simply curl up on the bed and drift off into a warm, safe sleep.
Anger jolts through me. I hate him for making me feel this way, for making me want to give in to this, to ignore all the red flags surrounding his behavior. I cling to that anger, because it’s better than numbness, better than shock. It’s better than just letting this all happen to me. I feel a jittery thread of energy run through me, and I walk out of the bedroom to go looking for him.
I find him in the living room, standing by those massive windows with their view of my apartment. He's holding a glass of vodka, staring out at the city. He looks calm and at peace, like he didn't just clean up a murder scene and kidnap me.
