"You didn't." I was staring at his chest—couldn't help it. He was broader than I'd realized, his body carved with muscle, scattered with scars I hadn't expected. A raised line across his ribs. A puckered circle near his shoulder that looked like a healed bullet wound. A map of violence written on his skin.
"My eyes are up here."
Heat flooded my cheeks. I jerked my gaze up to find him watching me with something that might have been amusement.
"I wasn't—"
"You were." He pushed off from the doorframe, moving closer. "It's all right. I look at you too. More than I should."
My heart was pounding. I should step back, put distance between us, remember who he was and what he'd done. Instead, I stood rooted to the spot while he closed the gap between us.
"You should go back to bed," he said softly.
"So should you."
"I won't sleep again tonight. I never do, after the dreams."
"What do you dream about?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. He went still, his expression flickering with surprise. I'd been so careful not to ask him anything personal, not to show any interest in the man beneath the monster. This was a crack in my defenses, and we both knew it.
"My mother," he said finally. "I dream about finding her."
"Finding her?"
"She killed herself. When I was seventeen." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but I could see the cost of the words in the tightness around his eyes. "I was the one who found her. In the bathtub. The water had gone cold by then."
The image hit me like a physical blow. Seventeen years old, walking into a bathroom to find his mother—
"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words felt inadequate, absurd. I was apologizing to my captor. Offering sympathy to the man who'd stolen my life.
But in that moment, he wasn't my captor. He was just a man standing in a dark hallway, haunted by a grief he couldn't outrun.
"It was a long time ago." He reached out, and I flinched instinctively—but he only tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle. "Go back to bed, Gabrielle. Get some sleep."
"What will you do?"
"Sit in the library. Read. Wait for dawn." His hand lingered near my face, not quite touching. "It's what I always do."
I should have walked away. Should have retreated to my room and locked the door and rebuilt the walls he kept finding ways to breach.
Instead, I heard myself say: "I'll come with you."
***
The library was dark except for a single lamp he switched on by the fireplace.
It was my favorite room in the house—I'd discovered that over the past three days, spending hours among the books to avoid spending them anywhere else. Two stories of leather-bound volumes, rolling ladders, deep armchairs positioned near windows that looked out over the moonlit sea.
Vasily settled into one of the armchairs, and after a moment's hesitation, I took the one across from him. The distance felt both too close and not close enough.
"You come here often," he said. "I've seen you on the cameras."
"Of course you have." I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Is there anywhere on this island you don't watch me?"
"Your bathroom. Your bedroom, when you're changing." He said it without shame. "I'm not interested in violating your privacy that way. I just need to know you're safe."
"Safe from what? We're on an island in the middle of nowhere. Your guards patrol every inch. What could possibly threaten me here?"
