Page 66

Still, the next day, when Andrei still hasn’t come back, I force myself to explore the house again, to get some exercise if nothing else. I explore rooms I've never been allowed to enter before, pushing open doors and half-expecting someone to stop me, to tell me I'm overstepping, to remind me of my place. I walk through a formal dining room with a table that seats twenty, a gym with weights racked in perfect order and a punching bag hanging in the corner with splits in the leather that suggest frequent, violent use, a sunroom filled with plants that someone must be tending. The soil is damp and the leaves are green and healthy, but I never see who.

When I go back upstairs, I hesitate… and then I walk into Andrei’s room.

It’s immaculate, which doesn’t tell me much, since this house has staff. But there’s a few things I see, as I walk around, feeling nervous and a little guilty for snooping. I tell myself it’s not like I haven’t been in here before—but I’ve never been in here without him.

I see a Russian novel on the nightstand, bookmarked halfway through. Two pairs of cufflinks in a dish next to it. I pick one of them up, and see it’s made of what looks like antiqued silver, with a spade engraved into the top of it.

For a moment, I have a weird urge to take it with me. To keep it as… what? A memento of this, once I’m back home? A reminder that what happened to me here was actually real?

Something to remember him by?

I drop the cufflink back into the dish with aclink, and leave the room quickly, my heart pounding in my chest.

That night,I ignore my dinner tray and slip into the kitchen after the usual dinnertime instead, wondering if anyone will be there. Whoever cooks in this house is gone, the kitchen spotless, and I feel a small thrill of rebellion at the idea of taking over the kitchen for myself for a little while.

I rifle through the cupboards and find pasta, olive oil, seasonings, and parmesan in the fridge. I know how to cook—I cook for myself often enough—and I wish I had a phone or some way to listen to music while I make myself dinner here. Instead, I hum under my breath, organizing ingredients before I find a bottle of white wine in the fridge as well, and pour myself a glass.

I wonder what Andrei would think, what he’d say, if he came home right now to this. The thought makes me smile for the first time in days, imagining the shock on his face. The idea of totally catching him off guard. Making him realize that that however much he thinks he has an idea of who I am, he really doesn’t.

Cooking makes the time go by a little faster, and before long, I have a dish of cacio e pepe and a fresh glass of wine. I go and sit in the breakfast nook by the window, and eat my pasta and sip the wine, trying not to think about anything other than the delicious food and a few moments of peace.

I'm used to silence. I lived alone in my apartment in the city and spent plenty of evenings by myself with a book or a glass of wine, enjoying the solitude after long days of work or social obligations or charity events. And after the chaos of the last few days, it feels good to be alone and quiet of my own volition, instead of because I’ve been isolated in a room.

I wash my dishes and put them away, and wipe down the counter so there’s no evidence left of my being here. And then, as I toss the paper towels away, I think again of what Andrei’s reaction might be if he came back now to find me cooking in his kitchen, cleaning up after myself, like I…

Like I live here.

And a part of me wishes he would actually walk through the door.

The realization hits me like a sharp slap—I miss him. I actually fucking miss him. Either I’ve become desperate for company… or something about him has gotten under my skin, into my head, and now…

It’s just the sex,I tell myself sternly as I leave the kitchen. It’s just because the way I feel when he touches me, the things he says when he’s inside me, the way he makes me come… all of it is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before or knew sex could be.That’s what’s gotten into my head, the fact that the sex is better than anything I ever even fantasized about.

It’s nothim. It’s just his incredible dick and how well he knows how to use it. I’ve been distracted by it, but that’s all.

I can’tactuallymiss a criminal, a killer, a man who kidnapped me and would—or has—done so to others, who steals and lies and rules through fear and violence.

It’s just the sex.

I need to call someone, I think as I walk out into the hall. I backed off last time because of the possibility Andrei is testing me, but I need to hear a voice that isn’t his or one of his men, or my father. I need to remember what’s out there beyond this mansion before I get lost in whatever is happening here.

I hurry up the stairs to the library, and go straight for the phone before I can talk myself out of it. I need to hear a familiar voice. I need to connect with the world outside this mansion, even if just for a few minutes. Remind myself that I existed before this, that there's a version of me who went to Pilates and yoga classes and had coffee with friends and didn't miss a man who kidnaps people for a living.

I pick up the phone and dial the first number that comes to mind before I can talk myself out of it.

Isabelle answers on the third ring. Her voice is so bright and warm and achingly normal that I almost hang up, my heart pounding at the risk I’m taking. "Hello?"

"Izzy," I manage, my throat tight. "It's me."

There's a pause. "Liesl? Oh my god, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for weeks—your phone goes straight to voicemail, your doorman said you haven't been home, I was starting to think something terrible had happened. Are you okay? Where are you?"

The questions come rapid-fire, concern bleeding through every word, and I close my eyes against the sudden sting of tears.

"I'm okay," I interrupt, forcing my voice to stay as steady as I can make it. "I'm fine. I just... I've been dealing with some stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Her voice sharpens with concern. She was always protective when we were younger—I can still remember the time she confronted a girl who was spreading rumors about me. "Are you in trouble? Do you need help? Because I can?—"