Page 16 of Kidnapped Bride

Wanting to wash the memory of him off my skin, I walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as it would go.

It steamed up the room and fogged the mirror before I stripped my panties off and climbed in.

The water scalded my skin, and I stood there under it with my eyes closed.

The heat loosened my chest and I let my head hang and breathed until the tightness in my throat eased enough that I could swallow without wincing.

When I pressed my forehead to the cool tile, it was refreshing.

My thoughts wandered to my father and what he was doing right now, whether Nikolai had told him where I was yet or demanded a ransom.

I didn't even know what he wanted other than the fact that he told me my father had to back off.

But I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t get involved in my father's business at all. How would I begin to know what I could offer this man to make him let me go?

After agonizing for long enough, the water started to go cold. I scrubbed my skin and my hair with some shampoo left in here. It was made for men and made me smell like Nikolai, but the cheese and coffee washed off.

Then I got out and dried off and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

My eyes were puffy and bloodshot and there was a red mark on my neck from last night that I didn't want to think about. And Anya was right. I looked tired.

It made my stomach growl again, and I wished I hadn't turned her offer of a second meal away. I was starving. And I was naked.

I had no clothes. My dress was ruined with coffee. I wasn't putting it back on. And my panties stank like sex, which I didn't need to be reminded of—no matter how good he made me feel.

So I went to his dresser and pulled open drawers until I found a pair of black boxers and a white T-shirt.

They were both too big, but I rolled the waistband of the boxers twice and the shirt hung to my thighs.

It made me sick to wear his clothes, but the alternative was being naked, and I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of that if he walked in.

Then I climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin and started going through every conversation I'd had with him.

How he randomly bumped into me on campus when I was hanging out with Ariana and we exchanged numbers.

The way he'd asked me about my day every morning and sent good night texts every night like he actually cared.

The late-night texts where he told me about his childhood in St. Petersburg and how his mother used to sing to him while she cooked. The time he told me he'd been cheated on…

Was I stupid?

But I could sense the pain in his words even through the screen.

But was any of it real?

The cooking class. The books.

The way he knew who Eric Ripert was and connected him to Bourdain like it was nothing.

Was that research?

Did he sit there scrolling through my messages to my friends, mining my social media, building a profile of who I was so he could become exactly the man I wanted?

It made me feel so dirty. So exposed.

But God, had it felt right when he pinned me down on that couch. And I wasn’t the sort of woman who dated men that much older than me, but I had brushed off every red flag and let him take me. I gave myself to him. I was so willing, so eager.

But when he changed, the coldness replaced that heat. Like flipping a switch.