Page 17 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
The realization makes my stomach twist with shame. So now what am I supposed to do? The seduction plan failed spectacularly. If anything, I've made things worse. He got what he wanted from me, and I'm still locked in this room with no way out. I'm no closer to freedom than I was yesterday.
I stay in the shower until the water starts to run cold, then force myself to get out. The robe is still hanging on the back of the door, and I wrap myself in it, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that's been keeping me going for the past two days is finally wearing off, leaving me hollow and drained.
I should stay awake. I should use this time to search the room for anything I can use as a weapon or a tool to escape. I should be planning my next move.
But my body has other ideas. The moment I lie down on the bed, my eyes grow heavy. I try to fight it, try to force myself to stay alert, but it's useless. Sleep pulls me under like a riptide, and I'm too tired to resist.
A knock at the door jolts me awake. I sit up, disoriented, my heart pounding. Sunlight streams through the barred windows, bright and cheerful, completely at odds with my situation. How long did I sleep? It feels like only minutes, but the quality of the light tells me it's morning.
The door opens before I can say anything, and a woman walks in. She's wearing a tidy uniform consisting of black pants and a white button-down shirt, and her arms are full of clothes. She's middle-aged, with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun, and when she sees me, she smiles.
"Good morning," she says in accented English. Russian, but she's been in America long enough that the accent has softened. "The Pakhan sent these for you. He thought you might want a change of clothes."
The woman sets the clothes on the dresser, still smiling at me like this is a perfectly normal situation. Like she brings clothes to prisoners every day. Maybe she does.
"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice rough from sleep.
She nods and leaves without another word, the door locking behind her with that same soft click.
I stare at the pile of clothes, part of me wanting to refuse them on principle. But that would be stupid. I can't stay in this robe forever, and my own clothes are still damp and wrinkled from yesterday's interrogation.
I sort through what he sent. Jeans that look like they'll actually fit, a soft sweater in deep green, underwear still in the package, socks, and even a pair of sneakers. Everything is high-quality, expensive, and exactly my size.
How does he know my size?
The thought makes my skin crawl, but I push it aside and get dressed. The clothes fit perfectly, comfortable and warm, and I hate that I'm grateful for them. I hate that he's thought of this, that he's providing for me like I'm a guest instead of a prisoner.
I'm just finishing tying my shoes when I hear the sound of a key in the lock. My pulse spikes, and I stand, smoothing down the sweater with nervous hands. The door opens, and there he is.
He looks different in the morning light. Still dangerous, still commanding, but there's something softer about him now. His dark hair is slightly damp, like he's recently showered, and he's wearing jeans and a black shirt that stretches across his broad chest. The bandage at his side is visible through the thin fabric, a reminder of what I did to him.
His blue eyes sweep over me, taking in the clothes, and something flickers in his expression. Satisfaction? Approval?
"Good," he says. "They fit."
I don't respond. I don't trust myself to speak without saying something that will make this worse.
"Come with me," he continues, stepping aside to gesture toward the hallway. "It's time for breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," I lie.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles loudly enough that we both hear it. Heat floods my cheeks.
His lips twitch, almost smiling. "Liar. Now, are you going to come downstairs like a civilized person, or do I need to bind your hands again?"
The memory of the zip ties cutting into my wrists makes me flinch. I don't want to be restrained again, don't want to feel that helpless.
"I'll be civilized," I say quietly.
"Good choice."
He leads me out of the room and down the hallway. I try to memorize the route again, counting doors and noting turns, but it's even more confusing in daylight. The estate is massive, with hallways that seem to go on forever and rooms I can only glimpse through open doorways.
We descend a grand staircase, the kind you see in movies about rich people, with polished wood banisters and a crystal chandelier hanging overhead. My sneakers are silent on the marble floors as we walk through what looks like a formal living room, then into a dining room that's bigger than my entire apartment.
A long table dominates the space, set with fine China and crystal glasses. But only two places are set, at one end of the table, across from each other. The Beast is already there, standing off to the side like a guard, his massive arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes track my movement as we enter, but his expression remains blank.
The Pakhan pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, feeling awkward and out of place. He takes the seat across from me, and almost immediately, staff appear with food, plates of eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and pastries that smell like Heaven. My stomach growls again, louder this time, and I can't help but reach for a piece of toast.
