"He trafficked in human beings. Sold children to the highest bidder." I don't soften the words. She deserves the truth. "Men like him are a disease. I'm the cure."
She stares at me. Processing. I can see the thoughts moving behind her eyes—fear, confusion, something that might be relief.
"Come," I say, standing. Offering my hand. "You need to get cleaned up."
She takes it.
Her fingers are cold, trembling, but they wrap around mine and hold on. Something shifts in my chest. Something I don't want to examine.
I pull her to her feet and lead her away from the body, away from the blood, toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. Behind us, I hear my men entering the penthouse. They'll handle the cleanup. They always do.
Right now, I have more important things to focus on.
The bathroom is white marble and soft lighting. I turn on the tap, test the temperature, let the tub fill while she stands in the middle of the room looking lost.
There's blood on her dress. On her face. In her hair.
Hisblood. Onher.
Rage builds in my chest, hot and familiar. Not at her—never at her—but at the circumstances that brought her here. At the Hendersons who sold her. At the traffickers who kept her. At the senator who thought he could use her as a bargaining chip.
I contain it. Lock it down. She doesn't need my anger right now. She needs calm.
"I'm going to help you undress," I tell her. "I won't touch you inappropriately. I just need to get you clean."
She nods. Doesn't speak.
I approach slowly, giving her time to object. She doesn't. Just stands there, shaking, while I reach for the straps of her dress.
The silk slides down easily. Pools at her feet. Underneath, she's wearing nothing but plain cotton underwear—practical, cheap, probably provided by whoever prepared her for auction.
I keep my eyes clinical. Professional. But I see everything.
The bruises.
Old ones, yellowing on her ribs. Fresh ones, purple on her thighs. Finger-shaped marks on her upper arms. A particularly nasty one on her collarbone, the one I noticed earlier, still dark at the edges.
Four weeks of captivity written on her skin.
"Suka," I mutter under my breath. The Russian curse feels inadequate for the fury building inside me.
She flinches.
"Not you," I say quickly. "Neveryou. The people who did this."
I guide her toward the tub. Help her step in. The water is warm—I checked—and she sinks into it with a small sound that might be relief.
I kneel beside the tub and reach for a washcloth. Wet it. Start with her face, gentle strokes wiping away the blood. She closes her eyes and lets me work.
"I don't understand what's happening," she says finally. Her voice is small. Broken.
"You're safe. That's what's happening."
"But I'm still—" She swallows. "I'm still owned. By you now."
The wordownedshould bother me. It doesn't.
"Yes."
