Page 29 of Devil’s Reign

Tossing off the covers, I slide from the bed and move closer. My ear presses against the thick wood of the door: the sound is definitely coming from the other side.

What now—has Ivan decided to renovate his suite while I sleep?

“Ugh.” I push away from the door, frustrated. I can’t make out anything except the persistent construction noise and the occasional mumbled sentence that gets lost in the chaos.

But then my bladder reminds me it has other priorities, and I shove my curiosity aside to attend to myself. In the bathroom, something catches my eye—a rolled packet at the edge of the sink that wasn’t there when I went to bed last night. I approach cautiously, like it’s a bomb in danger of detonating. When I get closer, I realize it’s a packet of toothbrushes. I pick it up gingerly, and it unfurls, revealing about a dozen toothbrushes.

My brows pinch together. Is this Vanya’s way of telling me my breath stinks? Curiosity getting the better of me, I pull open one of the drawers beneath the sink, and my jaw drops. It’s filled with even more toothbrushes—several brands and types ranging from soft to medium to hard bristles, from manual to electronic. Every option imaginable.

The next drawer is stocked with various toothpastes and mouthwashes. Every flavor, every brand. Huh.

Opening the last reveals an array of facial cleansers, body washes, hand soaps, lotions, and other skincare products I’ve never heard of. Plus different shampoos, conditioners, and other hair products. No, this isn’t him throwing a subtle dig at me. It’s his response to my demands last night. And he even got stuff I didn’t remember to request.

An annoying little flush of pleasure catches me off guard as I run a finger over the bristles of one brush. “Stop that,” I mutter to myself fiercely.

This isn’t him being nice or showing that he’s an active listener. It’s just him finally providing basic necessities—which he wouldn't need to do if he hadn’t kidnapped me in the first place. But my damned heart doesn’t listen to logic.

I slam the drawer shut and make my way to the toilet, finally relieving my bladder. When I’m done, I select one of the hand soaps and wash my hands, still stewing.

How on earth did he even get all this stuff in here without waking me up? Sure, I used to be a deep sleeper, but after two weeks on a cargo ship with containers groaning and waves slapping against the hull, I’d grown out of it. For the past two years in New York, I’ve woken up at the slightest noise.

So what is this? Two nights in a comfortable bed with a delicious heater and soft comforters, and I’m already back to my old ways? I frown at my reflection in the mirror.

No way.

But the evidence is right here. There’s no chance I would have slept through someone moving around the bathroom back home in our rundown Lower Manhattan apartment.

After drying my hands, I tear open one of the toothbrushes and choose my favorite brand of toothpaste.

I brush my teeth and tongue thoroughly, scrubbing away the stale, grimy feeling I woke up with. When I’m done, I hesitate briefly, then go lock the bathroom door just in case someone decides to enter the bedroom while I’m in here. Then I select a face wash and body wash—both expensive brands I’ve never tried—and take them with me into the shower, where a loofah is already waiting for me on one of the small built-in glass shelves. Thoughtful. No. This is just the bare minimum.

The shower turns into the longest one I’ve had in years. Maybe ever. I take my time with my hair, my skin, rinsing and repeating simply because I can. No one’s knocking or waiting their turn, and I don’t have to worry about conserving hot water when I’m not the one paying the bill. Steam curls around me, the sweet scent of the body wash and shampoo filling the enclosed space, easing tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

When I finally stop rinsing, my skin feels impossibly soft, like how I imagine a baby’s skin might feel. I pick up the bottles again, studying the labels with a quiet hum of approval. Very nice.

I get out of the shower and wrap one towel around my hair and another around my body. Leaving my hair bundled up, I pat myself dry before reaching for one of the lotions. It melts like heated butter into my palm as I rub my hands together, then glides smoothly over my skin. Incredible.

Once my body is moisturized, I move to my hair. I carefully fold the now-wet towels and place them at the edge of the sink, then grab a fresh one to squeeze out most of the dampness before brushing it out. By the time I’m done, I feel like an entirely different person.

Can I take all this stuff home with me when Vanya decides to let me go? The thought tightens my throat, which is ridiculous. Of course he’s going to let me go. This isn’t one of those dark romance books I obsess over. I’m a logical woman—there’s no universe where I develop Stockholm syndrome and fall in love with my captor. The idea is so absurd it earns a quiet laugh, and some of the tension leaves my shoulders.

I look at my Zvezda uniform lying discarded nearby. I grimace, suddenly reluctant to put it back on now that my body feels so clean. Even my now-dry panties look uninviting. I readjust my towel and make my way out of the bathroom. I would rather hide under the covers than contaminate my freshly washed skin with those clothes.

The banging and scraping outside is still going, though it sounds less intense now. As I frown towards the bedroom door, something else catches my attention.

The closet door is slightly open. It wasn’t like that before. My frown deepens as I cross the room to close it, but my hand freezes when I spot fabric peeking out. I drag the door fully open and gasp—actually gasp. Because the darn thing is overflowing with clothes. Tops, pants, dresses, sweaters—there are even silk scarves arranged by color.

It’s like a small department store exploded in here. I’ve never seen this many clothes in one closet in my life.

Sinking to my knees, I open the lower cabinets, already knowing what I’ll find. My suspicion is confirmed instantly—silk, lace, sheer underwear. Things I’ve never worn.

I run a palm over them reverently, then check one of the tags. It’s my exact size.

The low hum of awareness becomes a full-on thrum that spreads heat through my belly as I imagine Vanya choosing each piece. Standing in some boutique, running his hands over silk and lace, thinking of me wearing them… No, no, no, no. This is just the bare minimum. If he’s going to hold me hostage, then of course he has to provide what I need. That’s all this is. Nothing more. Except my hand keeps gliding over the delicate fabric as I catalogue the rest of the closet—every piece perfectly sized for me too. How the hell did he get that info?

I don’t remember the last time I got new clothes as a gift. Well, there was that time Mamma got me some for my eighteenth birthday. But they turned out way too big. She said I’d grow into them. I never did…

Yet this stranger—this dangerous, criminal stranger—somehow knew my exact size. Not just one item, but everything. And then he went out of his way to buy it all. Why?