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I open my eyes, a move that proves surprisingly easy. My eyelids no longer feel welded together, nor does my body feel extra heavy, though my mouth is painfully dry. Whatever drug I was given has worn off.
Blinking against the bright light, I take in my surroundings.
I’m in a large, sunlit room with several circular windows. The walls are all gleaming blond wood, as is the ceiling. The furniture in the room, made of the same wood, is minimal: a dresser, a nightstand, a lounge chair in the corner, and the spacious bed I’m lying on, which is covered with white sheets. High-end Scandinavian, that’s the vibe I’m getting—along with a touch of nausea generated by the gentle rocking underneath me.
A boat. I must be on a boat.
I sit up slowly, holding the top sheet against my chest. I’m dressed in something light and silky—a peignoir. Since the last thing I remember wearing is a red evening gown, someone must’ve changed my clothes, and I know exactly who that someone is. My heart rate picks up, my insides contracting into a knot even as my thoughts remain oddly calm and orderly.
My first step is to determine if I am indeed on a boat. I cast a look around and am relieved to find a peach-colored silk robe hanging on a hook on the back of a door to my left. It looks like something I might buy myself, as does the pale peach peignoir I’m wearing.
I’m not surprised. Alexei knows my tastes.
Swinging my feet to the floor, I swallow against the dryness in my throat, and my gaze falls on the bottle of water on the nightstand. I grab it and greedily gulp it down.
There. Much better.
I set down the empty bottle, slide my feet into a pair of elegant house slippers—again similar to the ones I favor—and walk over to the door to get the robe. I’m still strangely calm. Maybe the drug hasn’t worn off entirely?
Grabbing the robe, I belt it around my waist and step over to one of the windows.
It’s as I thought. Nothing but blue water in sight.
My heart gives an uneven thump, and tension gathers at my temples.
No. Not the headache. I can’t deal with that right now.
I take a deep breath and force my facial muscles to soften. I’m calm. All calm and Zen. Sure, I’m somewhere in the middle of the ocean with the man who’s terrified me for the past decade, but that doesn’t mean I have to panic, does it? Panic won’t accomplish anything. I need to think. I need to focus.
Only my body is not listening. My heart is full-on galloping, and my hands are beginning to tremble.
Alexei Leonov has me in his grasp, and nothing and no one can save me.
I drag another deep breath into my lungs and walk over to a different window, just in case I might be able to spot land from there.
Nope. Blue ocean all the way to the horizon. A somewhat unsettled ocean, too. I can see the white crests on the waves and feel the boat rocking underneath me. My nausea abruptly intensifies, and I turn away from the window before I get seasick.
I don’t need that either. At all.
What I do need is a bathroom, and that need is growing more urgent by the second.
I hurry over to the door where the robe was hanging and turn the knob. Score. A bathroom. A nice, luxurious one, again with that upscale Scandinavian vibe. In addition to a large shower stall, there is a clawfoot tub by another circular window that lets in a ton of light.
After I take care of my most pressing needs, I locate a brand-new electric toothbrush—the same kind I used in Moscow—and brush my teeth. Then I hop into the shower, even though I don’t feel the least bit grimy. Which is strange, come to think of it. It’s been anywhere from several hours to several days since Alexei took me from my brother’s compound, so I should be at least somewhat unclean.
He must’ve washed me when he changed my clothes. That’s the only explanation.
My breathing quickens, and it’s all I can do to hang on to whatever shreds of calmness remain. I’ve been trying not to think about Alexei’s hands on me, undressing me and fitting the peignoir onto my naked body, but I can’t keep the images of him bathing me out of my mind.
The images and the disturbing way they make me feel.
With the thought of him in mind, I hurry through the shower, not bothering to wash my hair even though the corner shelf is stocked with my favorite brand of shampoo and conditioner. Instead, I quickly soap up my body and wash my face, and then I step out and dry myself with a fluffy towel that also looks suspiciously like the ones I had back home.
I don’t want to put the worn peignoir back on, so I wrap another towel around my torso and smooth my slightly damp hair with a boar-bristle brush—identical to the one I like, of course. A search of the vanity drawers reveals my favorite brands of skincare, makeup, and hair-styling tools. After a moment of hesitation, I avail myself of everything because I feel better, more in control, when I have my beauty mask on.
When I’m done, I look exactly like I always do: flawless skin, red lipstick, cat-eye liner. My vampire-black hair is long and straight, flat-ironed to a smooth gloss. All I need now are my designer clothes, and I’ll feel completely like myself. Or at least the self I’ve carefully cultivated over the past few years.
Clutching the towel tightly around my chest, I exit into the bedroom—and freeze in place.
