The man must know nothing about privacy because he insisted I leave the bathroom door open, just so he’s certain I’m not doing something stupid, like trying to escape.
I roll my eyes.
I’m weak to my bones from being sick and hungry as fuck. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, since it’s impossible to keep track of time without a clock. I’m not stupid enough to try to run when I know I’m barely strong enough to outrun a tortoise.
My gaze flickers to the window. It’s small, barricaded by metal rods. It’s not as if I’m tiny enough to slip between them. My head wouldn’t even make it through.
I try to ignore him, but his unblinking gaze traces every move I make. I can feel the weight of his eyes like a physical touch. It’s intense, suffocating…and impossible to ignore.
My body is tense under his scrutiny, and I’m oddly self-aware, but not in the way a woman should be when a dangerous man is peering at her naked reflection in the mirror.
But in a way that makes my stomach flutter with butterflies as my chest heaves. My nipples harden and tighten, tingling with the need to feel his hands on me.
Good Lord.
I stop the thoughts before they go any further. I can’t possibly be attracted to my captor. I’m certain I haven’t been here more than a day or two, so there’s no way I have Stockholm syndrome already.
But it’s impossible to ignore the way his steel gray eyes darken each time they meet mine.
When I turn off the shower, he moves toward the towel neatly folded on the counter.
Through the fogged mirror, I trace the hard line of his jaw, making a mental note of the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders as he reaches for the towel. The man is all muscle.
His sleeves are rolled up just enough to expose his strong forearms, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead like he’s posing for a magazine cover. He’s the kind of attractive that feels like standing too close to the edge of a cliff—a terrible judgement disguised as temptation.
I should stay away from him, but there’s something dangerously restrained about him that pulls me in every time I try to push him from my mind. My pulse stumbles every time he looks at me. I hate that my body reacts to him when my mind is screaming at me to stay guarded.
Our fingers brush as he hands me the towel, and the contact sends a sharp pulse into my chest that makes me nearly drop the thick fabric.
His hand lingers for the barest second too long, heat curling beneath my skin. Then the realization hits that I’m bareand he can see me—all of me. The awareness draws a gasp from my lips, and snatching the towel from him, I quickly wrap it around myself before stepping out of the shower.
He was right. The hot water eased some of the ache from my muscles, and the heaviness in my head isn’t nearly as painful as before.
I feel a lot better.
My fingers curl around the hem of the towel.
“Feel any better?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges. If I had to guess, I’d stay he’s fighting to not wrap his hands around my neck and strangle me to death. Men like him can take a life without batting an eye. It’s deeply concerning that he’s pretending to care whether or not I feel better.
I nod. “Thank you.”
He ignores my thank-you and nods toward the black pajamas folded on the counter. “They’re mine. You can wear them for the night.”
With that, he turns his back on me and starts to leave.
What does he mean I can wear his clothesfor the night? Does that mean he’s going to let me go tomorrow? Given his actions so far, I doubt Leonid is the type of man who would just hand me my freedom on a silver platter.
But the words rip from my throat before I can stop them. “Are you letting me go?”
He halts by the door, then slowly turns around like he’s filming a commercial for a makeup or shampoo brand. No one should look this handsome, especially not some crazy Russian who kidnaps women.
“No, ptichka.”
“No.” A flare of rage sparks in my chest. I draw in a breath, reminding myself not to act rashly. One wrong move and this man will kill me. “You have to let me go. You can’t keep melocked away forever. People will notice that I’m gone, and soon the police will start to look for me.”
“The police?” He repeats the two words like a mockery as he turns around, but I’m more concerned about why he keeps calling me that word. I have zero ability to understand Russian, but I wish I had my phone to check what it means. “Read the room, darling.”
My rage burns even hotter. I tilt my head and look into his eyes, refusing to back down even as adrenaline seeps into my veins. “First off, I’m not your darling. Secondly, this is kidnapping. You’re keeping me here against my will and messing up my life. This can’t last forever,” I spit out.
