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I’m pretty sure he’s got this place rigged with some sort of alarm system, so it’s pointless to try and sneak my way out of the bedroom. But the bathroom? No one with a shred of decency would rig a bathroom…
Right?
The plan: find the weak spots. Take a shower. Convince him to bring Willow in here. Make a run for it.
I make my way—slowly, still a bit wobbly—to the archway and lean heavily against the mosaic-tiled column to hang a left. I am feeling better; it’s just been a few days since I last actually walked.
Good Lord.This man lives in a palace.
The bathroom is huge. Everything is white: white tiles, white walls, white fixtures, all accented by gold faucets and light fixtures. Even the toilet handle is gold. It would be ostentatious if it weren’t for the exotic plants hanging in beautiful pots, lining the frosted windows, and decorating the vanity.
Exotic plants and flowers have always been my secret passion. If I’d been allowed to go to college, I would have studied botany and found my way to far-off lands with new species to be identified and cataloged. I used to dream about it in high school. Even prepared a persuasive speech for my father when I chose my dream college.
But then he introduced me to Martin. And once I turned eighteen, the only place I was allowed to go was Martin’s house, Martin’s bed.
I’m distracted by the plants inside this bathroom, so much so that I almost forget why I’m here. My mind is racing with facts. Preferred humidity points and foliage patterns and rooting systems. I can close my eyes and picture the textbook I learned it all from, a thick beast of a book with hand-drawn illustrations and a spine permanently bowed from how many times I cracked it open when I was still young and hopeful.
I could live in this room.
Shower. Focus.
I shuffle over to the huge sliding glass door of the shower and step inside. Of course, it’s the kind that has a rainfall showerhead suspended from the ceiling, jets that let out steam for one of those steam bath experiences. I’m pretty sure you can pay extra for a feature that screams, “Look at my riches and weep, peasant!” to anyone with a net worth less than yours.
I’ll be lucky if I can even figure out how to use the stupid dials.
It takes a few tries, but I finally manage to get the water flowing and at a decent temperature. I’m used to taking five-minute showers because Martin always goes first and uses up the hot water, leaving only enough for me to do the basics and then finish up in the sink.
But I’m not there anymore. And Martin’s not here.
And I bet… Ibet… this hot water will last for hours.
I stand underneath the rainfall until I realize I haven’t even taken off my once-sweaty, now-drenched clothes. I peel those off and toss them into a corner to grab later.
The water on my skin feels so good. I almost want to cry; everything feels so good despite being in such a bad situation. It’s confusing the hell out of me and I don’t want to lose myself inside this twisted game Demyen’s playing.
But I don’t want to lose Willow, either—which means I have to play the game regardless.
I look around the shower walls for soap, shampoo, anything to freshen up. A stone alcove layered to look like natural sandstone forms the shelves holding natural sea sponges, a bristle brush, and several bottles labeled with French-sounding brands I’ve never heard of before. I find one that says “hair wash” and figure that probably means “shampoo,” so I slather some onto my palm and work it into my scalp.
Ohh, it smellsamazing. And familiar, too, weirdly enough. I can’t put my finger on why that would be. But it tingles my scalp and feels as incredible as it smells.
I rinse and repeat—I need to experience that bliss again—and then look for what might be conditioner. Another bottle that looks like the first one says “rinse,” so maybe? I slather that in, it feels close to what I’m looking for, and I let it soak in while I look for body wash.
And he gavemegrief for renaming things. Wealthy people are on a whole other level.
At least the body wash is labeled clearly. But it’s also clearly a man’s bottle, all masculine in how the label is designed. I take a sniff of the liquid?—
Oh. This… this is Demyen’s body wash.
I recognize that smell.
And suddenly, it clicks with the shampoo, why that smelled so familiar.
It smelled like Demyen.
This… this is Demyen’s shower.
This is Demyen’s bathroom.
