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I don’t hesitate. I’m inside with the door locked behind me before I’ve finished taking in the full sight of it, my dirty dress in a heap on the floor as I head straight for the bathtub. A shower simply won’t cover what these last few days have done to my body. I need to soak.

On the lip of the tub is a small box of bath bombs, a loofah, soap, shampoo, and conditioner—all sealed and brand new. I don’t stop to question it. I kneel next to the tub and turn on the tap, watching impatiently as it fills with water, dipping my fingers in every few seconds to check the temperature.

I catch the bruising at my wrists, and a phantom sting pulses through them, but I ignore it. Dimitri’s men actually went easy on me. I know because I was never touched. Not really. Yes, I was tied up in my cell and left hanging while they questioned me, and it hurt—it hurt like hell—but nobody hit me. Which is more than I can say for my blackmailers and what they did to Millie. So it was easy for me to endure and keep my mouth shut. Because poor Millie went through worse. I shake the thought out of my head and drag myself back to the present.

When the tub is nearly full and the temperature is right, I shut off the tap and tear open the bath bomb box, dropping two of the pink balls into the water. They fizzle and foam as they dissolve, turning the water a pale pink, their citrusy scent filling the air.

I wait for the bath bombs to fully dissolve before slipping in with a long, exhausted sigh, my head tipping back against the edge of the tub as my body sinks into the heat. I stay like that for several minutes. Only when the water starts to cool around me do I force myself to sit up.

I grab the loofah, tear through the crinkly plastic, and place it under the tap until it’s fully soaked. Then I open the bottle of soap and pour a generous amount onto it.

The soft sponge glides over my skin, and I sigh, feeling the grime and sweat lifting away with each pass. Once I’m thoroughly clean, I stand to drain the dirty soap water before filling the tub again with fresh hot water. I sink back in, letting it rinse over me, then reach for shampoo to wash my hair.

I probably spend hours in that tub, refilling the hot water, washing and conditioning my hair, then scrubbing my body again to rinse the shampoo from my skin. By the time I get out, finally done, I’m pruney and pink, my stomach rumbling with hunger. I ignore it and check the cabinet under the sink for a toothbrush, almost jumping with joy when I find one. The cottony sourness in my mouth has been its own kind of misery these past few days, and nobody cared enough to provide dental supplies to the prisoner. I had to make do with water and my fingers, but that wasn’t nearly enough.

After brushing my teeth, I finally feel human again.

I unlock the bathroom door and peek out, making sure the room is empty before stepping out. Then I hurry to the closet, hoping to find at least a shirt—anything—because there’s no way in hell I’m putting my dirty dress back on.

But when I open it, I freeze.

Clothes.

Not a few items, not a borrowed sweater—a full closet, organized and hung and folded, more clothes than I could wear in a month. I stand there with my hand on the door, my eyes almost bulging out of my skull, and then I start to recognize things.

That grey silk. The black lace. The sapphire corset. The deep red. Dress after dress I’d tried on under Dimitri’s unblinking attention in that private fitting room, each one he’d said no to.

My mind is spinning. He bought them all. Every single one. And had them brought here… for me?

“I’ve prepared a special room for you. Two, actually.”

Was this what he meant?

My heart clenches so hard I gasp, hunching as I slap my hand over my chest. He said I was the first woman he brought here. He made up that BDSM room for me, and this one as well? And I paid him back by putting a needle in his thigh.

I blow out a shaky breath and reach for a pair of sweatpants at the back of the closet, along with a crop top—not part of what I tried on at the store, which means he or someone he trusted thought about what else I might want and went looking for it specifically. I put them on and feel the complicated warmth of being cared for by someone who has every reason not to care for you anymore.

I’m searching for a brush when the click of the door lock freezes me in place.

Someone’s coming in.

My heart kicks up as I fold my arms over my chest, pretending a calmness I’m far from feeling. But when the door opens, it isn’t Dimitri—it’s one of his men. He’s the one who brought me food in the dungeon, and even now he’s carrying a tray of food that instantly has my mouth watering.

His lips thin briefly as he eyes me, but he smooths his expression quickly, setting the tray down on the desk before leaving without a word.

The moment he’s gone, I sink into the chair and devour my first meal of the day.

I’m finishing the last bite when the lock clicks yet again. I swallow the rest of my water and get to my feet, facing the door as it opens. My eyes widen at the familiar woman who steps inside. Arabelle Franchetti, one of the doctors back at Dr. Lenz’s consultation room. We never really became friends, since we were mostly on different shifts, but we know each other in passing.

Her steps falter when she sees me, recognition flitting across her face, but she quickly covers up her surprise, giving me the slightest shake of her head. Behind her, another one of Dimitri’s men enters, hovering close enough to make it clear he’s here to protect Arie—from me. It’s almost laughable, except there’s nothing funny about this situation.

“Can you take a seat for me?” Arie gestures toward the bed, stepping closer.

I nod and sit.

We both pretend we’re strangers as she runs through a routine check—taking my vitals, listening to my heartbeat and lungs, examining my eyes and ears and throat. When she reaches my wrists and studies the fading bruises there, her brows pull together in a deep frown.

She tosses a glance at the man hovering behind her. “I’d like a moment alone with the patient, Pavel.”