My eyes crack open. The room swims. He’s crouched beside the bed, a glass in his hand.
“Drink,” he says.
He lifts it to his mouth first. Just a sip. Then holds it out to me.
The glass is cool. The water tastes clean. I drink until he pulls it away.
“Good,” he mutters.
I’m already fading again.
When I wake this time, it’s with pressure in my bladder.
The room is bright. Too bright.
Sunlight spills through the window, high and unapologetic. Afternoon, maybe.
I sit up slowly, head heavy, body sore but… quieter.
I scan the bedroom. No sign of Maksim. The door is cracked open slightly, the place sounds quiet.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, testing my weight. My ribs protest, but it’s manageable.
I spot a note on the nightstand beside me:
Bathroom is the left door.
Closet on the right.
I’ll be back.
Don’t leave.
The bathroom is exactly where he said it would be.
I barely make it in time.
When I wash my hands, I notice the box by the shower.
Cardboard. Open. Inside—ten bottles of my body wash. My body wash. The same one from my apartment. Same scent. Same brand.
My throat tightens.
I stare at the bottles like they might rearrange themselves into something that makes sense.
How…?Why?
Heat crawls up my neck, then drops straight into my stomach, heavy and cold.
Did he really mean it?
About keeping me?
Because this—this isn’t some impulse decision he made in the car.
This isplanned.
Ordered.
