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I'm a little stunned. He strikes me as the type to be intensely private. This couldn’t have been the only place on the entire boat for him to keep me. Surely, he’d rather lock me in a supply closet or in crew quarters before allowing me unfettered access to all his personal belongings.

I trail my hand along his neatly hung shirts and notice they carry a hint of his scent. That, and he wears a crap ton of black. I suppose black is compulsory for a man dubbed the Reaper.

How long has he carried that name?

Was it given to him by his own men or by his enemies?

Locating a plain black T-shirt, I slip it on. While it covers the important parts, I’d feel even better with pants on, so I dig in the drawers until I locate a pair of gray joggers with a drawstring that I can cinch tight enough to keep them up.

I look around and consider turning the closet inside out in search of something that might help me, like a weapon or a phone. Why does that feel invasive? This man kidnapped me. I don’t owe him anything, least of all privacy. Yet when I picture him returning to find his things upended, a fissure of shame holds me back.

What a mindfuck.

All I can figure is that when I look at Elio, I feel like he should be a friend because his brother is my friend. Elio is not DiAngelo. I shouldn’t care if I upset him, but I do. My reactions to him aren't exactly rational, and I can't explain it.

You’d be an idiot not to look around a little.

True. And it's not like he can honestly expect me not to snoop. He told me himself to get clothes from his closet, and if he didn’t want me to pry while I was at it, he shouldn't have left me unrestrained and alone.

Yes, I’m going to have a cursory look around, and I think I’ll start with the hidden panels in the walls. They pop open with a little push to trigger the latch. I find emergency supplies, some life jackets, and books. Tons of books—the mass market kind found in grocery stores. The spines are creased and crumbling from use. I’m engrossed in reading the wide variety of titles when a knock sounds at the bedroom door.

I slam the panel door shut just as the bedroom door cracks open.

“Isa? Can I come in? It’s Evie.”

“Yes, come in,” I call, hurrying out of the corridor and into the main room. I don’t know why. She probably doesn’t care that I was snooping, but it still feels icky to get caught.

“Hey! I see you’ve found something to wear. I brought you a few other options and some toiletries.” She holds up a tote bag full to the brim.

“That’s so kind of you, thank you.” I take the bag from her and offer a heartfelt smile.

“No problem at all. Let me show you how the TV works, too. I know how boring it can be on these boats, trust me. We’ve been staying on this one for the past three months.” She crosses to the nightstand and walks me through the satellite TV system, which also includes music channels and a few other apps.

“I think I have it,” I assure her.

“If you have questions, you can always ask whoever is stationed in the hall to call for me. I’m happy to come by anytime.”

My brows knit together as I try to understand how she’s okay with all this.

“Evie, can I ask how you ended up here? Are there other wives or girlfriends aboard who I haven’t seen?”

“Nope, just way too much testosterone.” She rolls her eyes lightheartedly.

“And Michael was okay bringing you with him?”

“This was our safest option. When Michael fell in with the Reaper—Elio, that is—it changed things. We were suddenly vulnerable, and while some of his men stayed loyal, we needed somewhere safe to lay low.” She’s being relatively vague on the details, which tells me as much as she may like the idea of female companionship, her loyalty lies with her husband.

“So Michael isn’t part of Reaper’s … organization?”

She shakes her head, lips thin before continuing in a low tone. “Honestly, we don’t know all that much about him. I’ll say, though, from what I’ve seen so far, he seems reasonable and level-headed. I’ve never felt in any danger around him or his men.” She chews on her cheek.

“But?”

“He’s been especially distant over the past two weeks. And now that I see him with you—see how much more volatile and intense he can be—I’m not sure my experience will be the same as yours. I have no idea what happened in his past, but I’d say his wounds run deep.”

I nod wearily. “I get that sense, too—like he blames his family and me for what happened to him, but we had nothing to do with it.” I’m finding Evie unexpectedly easy to talk to. I don’t usually open up so quickly when I meet someone new.

“Blame-shifting, or projection, is common for those with unresolved trauma.”