Grayson presses a damp washcloth to my forehead. “I was going to let you sleep it off, but you were starting to stink.”
I snatch the cloth from his hand. “That tends to happen when you’ve beenburied alive,” I snap.
He’s unfazed, his mouth twisted into a smug half-smile. “Towels are in the closet. Everything you need is already in the shower.” He rises to stand. “I’ll leave you alone.”
I watch him exit, shutting the wood-paneled door behind him. I toss the cloth and jump to my feet, immediately swaying. Using the wall to right myself, I ease toward the door and check the handle. Locked.
From the outside.
“Shit,” I mutter, scanning the rest of the room.
I’m trapped in a house designed for captives.
I find a bottle of water on the counter and greedily gulp it half down before questioning whether it could be laced with something. I wait to feel any disorientating drug effects, but I’m so dehydrated, I drink the rest anyway.
Maybe it will knock me out completely.
I brace my palms on the edge of the counter, and mercifully, the fog starts to clear from my head. I search my memory for how I got here. We crossed a state line, I know that much, but I’m not sure how much longer we drove?—
A knock sounds. “I laid clothes out for you in the guest room,” Grayson says through the door. “You can discard the ones you’re wearing.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and focus. I can’t make another mistake. I can’t underestimate him again. “And food?” I call out calmly. I’ll need energy.
“I’ll have something ready for you.”
I wait until I hear the sound of his retreating footsteps before unbuttoning my torn blouse and peeling off my disgusting slacks. Every ruined article of clothing gets tossed into a wastebasket in the corner. It takes too long for the shower to heat, and I dive into the cold spray of water, thankful to feel something clean against my skin.
Partway through washing, the water warms, probably due to the generator Grayson mentioned. As I scrub dirt from my hair with shampoo, I go over all the information I’ve gathered so far. Processing his words, the scenery, my predicament. I need more.
And I need to suppress my fear so I can do what I’m trained to do: listen.
I shut off the water and step onto the chilly tile. Towel wrapped tightly around me, I search for clues. The walls are paneled in light reclaimed wood. The white porcelain countertop contrasts with contemporary hardware, giving it a rustic but elegant feel that I’d otherwise appreciate if not for the fact that I’m being held captive.
Candlelight flickers, casting a soft glow in the vanity mirror as I step close to inspect my reflection. I comb my fingers through my damp hair, rinse my mouth with toothpaste I find in a drawer, push my cleavage above the towel.
Under normal conditions, I’d never condone manipulating a patient’s unstable state to deceive them, but this is no normal circumstance—and Grayson is a special brand of disturbed.
I have to stay sharp. I have to outwit him. So when the bathroom door opens, I’m primed to take him on—armed with the only weapon I have.
And shit, I’m not prepared for the impact. Grayson leans against the doorframe, shirtless, unashamed, his tattoos and scars on full display. A gauze bandage wraps his wounded shoulder, and a pair of low-slung jeans hang on his hips, accentuating the toned and sculpted body I’ve only ever felt.
Heat stirs in my belly, and I tug my towel higher, wrap it tighter.
“Make sure those thighs are squeezed just as tight,” he remarks, an amused smile twitching at his lips.
I bristle at his taunt, biting down on my tongue to stop my retort.
He crosses his arms, and I hate the way the action makes me notice his biceps. “You’re many things, London, but demure isn’t one of them.” His gaze moves deliberately over my body, and I feel the press of it like a physical caress across my exposed skin.
My pulse quickens, and I clear my throat. “I need clothes.”
He pushes off the doorframe and advances in slow, predatory strides. I retreat until my backside hits the counter.
Until this moment, most of our time together has been spent with Grayson either shackled or restrained to a chair. As he towers over me now, I’m reminded of how much taller he is, forcing me to tip my head back the closer he draws.
“Clothes can wait,” he says. He trails a finger over my shoulder, down along my arm, leaving an aesthetic chill in his wake. As he reaches my wrist, he clasps me gently and lifts it to inspect the deep red bands marking my skin from the cuffs.
“Sit on the counter,” he orders, a deep gravel edging his tone.
