It’s sort of peaceful.
There’s no way of escaping. The windows are locked, and though there are doors onto a roof terrace, they won’t open. Downstairs it’s the same. I note one room that’s shut and guess that’s the kitchen. Probably smart not to allow me access to knives or boiling water.
Finally, I get to a large, airy room that has enormous windows slid open to the terrace where we ran from earlier, plush sofas and chairs arranged together, and books on shelves all around the outside of the room.
Rows and rows of books, reaching up to the ceiling. All pale spines, as though it’s a social media background.
I’m staring at this when a small movement makes me finally notice Kirill sitting behind a clean white desk with a huge computer monitor on the other side of the room.
My heart does an uncalled-for lurch. His hair is damp and tousled, like he showered after our chase, and he’s wearing a white T-shirt now.
He’s not looking at me, so I take the moment to examine him. The tattoos. His muscles. The scatter of black hair on his forearms. I tell myself I’m ensuring I can describe him when I eventually manage to go to the police, but I doubt they’ll find a detailed description of his lips particularly useful for identification.
“Hi,” I say, uncertainly, moving into his eyeline. My tummy is doing a nervous dance.
“Lapochka,” he replies, flicking his gaze to me, then back to the computer screen.
That’s all I get?
Well, you got an orgasm and the most exhilarating thing that’s ever happened to you,whispers a voice in my head.What else do you want?
I turn and examine the books, and consider the open doors from the side of my eyes. They’re mainly non-fiction. Some thrillers. But they’re nearly all hardbacks, and the paperbacks that there are have never had their spines broken. They seem a bit too perfect.
“Have you read any of these?” I ask eventually.
“Most, yes.”
“Really?” I don’t hold back the scepticism in my voice.
“Not those copies.” He remains focused on his computer. “I don’t read dead tree. But I like the aesthetic of it, so I had the interior designer do the shelves based on my interests.”
I’m not sure if that’s awful, genius, or just proof that he is as rich as he says he is. He doesn’t even arrange his own bookshelves.
“But you don’t read much on paper, either,” he states, looking over at me, his metal eyes sharp. It’s not a question.
I press my lips together. How does he know that?
Something catches his attention on his screen, and I’m ridiculously hurt when he looks away from me.
“Your present is ready,” he says, reaching into a drawer of his desk, and pulling out a familiar black device.
I approach warily, and take it from his hand.
An e-reader. It’s the latest model, and seems to be new. And when I press the button to switch it on, the page that flicks to life makes tingles go up and down my spine.
Hello Tess!it announces.
What?
Kirill is watching me, and when I look back at him, his expression is utterly neutral. He reveals nothing.
I turn it over in confusion, but it’s not my e-reader from home. That’s an old one, with a screen that isn’t as good, and lots of stickers on it. Then it begins to load my books, the covers popping up.
Loads of my library holds have come through. I stare for a moment, then snatch up my phone and check the library apps.
It’s not just thatsomeare available. It’s all of them, including the audiobooks, and even titles that had twelve-month waiting lists and have recently been published.
Looking back at the e-reader, I’m trembling with excitement and how unnerved I am. I have twenty-eight days to read a year’s worth of books.
