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“To serve them?” he grits out.
I down what’s left of my drink. “To keep them alive.”
He follows my example and slams his glass on the desk before standing. “What about you?”
“I have a call scheduled with one of our informants. I want to know how the police investigation is progressing. Meet me for a debrief with the men when you’re done.” They may say they haven’t left evidence behind, but I take nothing for granted.
Mateo watches me, measuring my reaction. “She’s not scared. She thinks she has power. She needs to be put back in her place.”
She does have power, enormously so, but she’s scared, all right. She’s just better at being brave.
I tilt my head to the door. “Food. Tonight, still.”
He clenches his hands into fists and walks to the door, banging it behind him as he leaves.
Yeah. She should be scared.
If she knew my plans for her, she’d be petrified.
CHAPTER 3
Christina
The moment the door closes behind Roman, I throw the blanket off my body and sit up. The movement hurts, but I ignore the pain and climb off the bed. My muscles ache and my neck is stiff like when I’ve done a heavy workout. It must be an after-effect of the accident. The cuts on my feet burn and my side throbs.
I study my naked body. The cut running from my waist to my hip is crudely stitched up. Apart from a few bruises and scrapes, I don’t have other injuries.
Despite the comfortable temperature in the room, I shiver. I no longer have the reprieve of numbness. The cold comes from inside me. It’s a bone-deep chill that no heater can expel. My priority is clothes. It’s not the coldness that motivates me. I don’t want to be more vulnerable than necessary.
Light falls through a door on the right. I hobble over the floor. The tiles are warm under my bare feet. Roman must have underfloor heating. I stop on the threshold and peer around the frame into a spacious bathroom. Condensation covers the mirrors and fixings. A smell of shower gel hangs in the air, something piney and ferny. He recently showered or bathed. Unease about my washed state unfurls in my belly, but I push the thought away quickly. I don’t want to know how I got clean because I won’t be able to handle the answer. At least Roman hasn’t touched me like that. If he had, I would’ve known. It’s no small consolation.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face and hair is a mess. The area around my abdomen is purple with bruises. I enter, registering the wet bath rug in front of the tub. That must be how Roman got me clean. Taking a tissue from the vanity, I wet it under the tap and wipe the mascara from under my eyes. Being presentable doesn’t matter to me. It’s about keeping up the pretense that I’m well and strong instead of scared and weak.
Another door leads off to the side. I pad over. It’s a large dressing room. Inside, it smells like a man’s cologne. It’s subtle, not overbearing like Bell’s. For some reason, the subtleness fills me with dread. Men who practice moderation and control have willpower. Men who don’t wear too much cologne aren’t making up for what they’re lacking in other departments. They’re certain of themselves. Those men are the most dangerous.
The drawers and closets have glass fronts. Backlights put the contents of the white shelving on display. Neatly folded sweaters and men’s shirts fill the shelves. Jackets and pants hang in the closet where everything is arranged by color. I open the drawers and check a few labels. All the clothes are the same size. There are no other men’s or women’s clothes. Roman lives alone.
I grab a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and pull them on. Fortified with layers of clothes, I go through the tray drawers on top of rows of fancy dress shoes, but other than expensive watches and cufflinks, there are no weapons or phones.
I don’t waste more time in here. I quickly return to the bedroom. It’s modern with minimal furniture. A white leather sofa faces a glass coffee table against the window. The bed against the wall sports an enormous headrest covered in black velvet. The bed linen is black, as is the comforter and the blanket that covered me. An unframed canvas with thick, black brushstrokes hangs on the opposite wall. The painting is dark and depressing. The rest of the space is white.
Working fast, I search the room. The nightstand drawer is locked. Like the dressing room, the bedroom is child—or rather, hostage—safe. No guns, knives, or cell phones lie around, not that I expected any, yet I can’t stop hoping. If I do, I may as well give up.
