Chapter 16
MELANI
I wake reluctantly, yanked from my ridiculous dreams—of flying around the city on a unicorn with Mamma and Luciano—by loud clanging and scraping that refuses to be ignored.
Yawning, I rub the back of my hand over my face and sit up, squinting at the unfamiliar room until memory catches up. Right. Still a prisoner.
The noise draws my attention to the door. “What the hell’s happening out there?” I mutter, even though there’s no one here to answer.
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?
What’s going on in his head? Does he… does he like me?
I witnessed him do something that should have gotten me killed.
But not only did he spare my life, he also brought me to this luxurious hotel, started feeding me restaurant-quality meals, and made me come.
And now this—toiletries, clothes, everything I could need?
No, no, no. He’s not doing me any favors.
That’s the kind of thinking that will make me fall for him, and I can’t afford that.
He’s not being generous—he’s my captor. Get that into your thick skull, Melani.
What if this is a trick? A calculated move to make me soften towards him.
But soften towards him for what? He kissed me last night and I fucking folded like cheap origami.
So it’s not like he needs bribery to get me into bed.
If he had wanted to have sex with me yesterday, I wouldn’t have stopped him. Damn it, I need to get out of my head.
I grab a pair of underwear and put them on, ignoring how light and soft they feel against my skin. A silk top follows, then slim-fitting slacks. As I run my hands down the smooth material, I can’t help but feel a surge of confidence. I feel like a million bucks.
Just as I take in the moment, my bedroom door opens, and the guy who brings my meals walks in. He does a visible double-take when he sees me, then quickly schools his expression and sets the breakfast tray on the table.
This is a different guy from yesterday—the one who seemed to soften towards me when I was suffering in handcuffs.
I wonder why he was replaced. The new guard casts one last assessing glance my way before heading for the door.
“Hey, wait,” I call out. He stops to throw a frown at me. “What’s with the noise out there?”
His frown deepens, and he remains quiet for so long I’m not sure he’ll answer. But then, gruff and clipped: “A library is being built.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me standing there, with a sudden, fierce jolt of anticipation. A library? A library? A new library?
I’ve wanted free access to the suite since I got here—the whole point is to search for information about Luciano, after all.
But now my entire body practically vibrates with the need to get out of this room.
To see this library with my own eyes. To smell the books, run my fingers along the spines.
Even if they’re probably all stuffy non-fiction stuff.
I can’t imagine Vanya actually reading fictional novels. The thought makes me snort.
My feet tap restlessly as I eat, my eyes snapping to the door at every sound, trying to piece together what’s happening.
The clanging has stopped now. Are they arranging the books?
Finishing shelves? My pulse picks up, my foot tapping faster.
I would do anything, anything, for a moment in that library.
Books are my addiction—my escape, my oxygen.
Damn it. I never should have asked what was going on out there.
Now I’m going to obsess over this library until I’m blue in the face. What agonizing torture.
As I finish breakfast, the door opens again, and I straighten instinctively.
Will Vanya let me see the library if I beg?
I’m not above stooping that low. Anything for a well-packed bookshelf.
I hold my breath as I wait for him to step inside.
But after a few seconds, the door remains open, and nobody comes in.
Hope, sweet and poignant, builds in my chest as I slowly rise to my feet.
Am I... being allowed out? Or is this a test?
One thought drowns out the rest. The library.
Before I can overthink it, my feet carry me forward. My lips stretch into a smile I can’t control. My hands are shaking—actually shaking. Safe to say books aren’t just my addiction. They’re my fucking kryptonite.
I come to a dead stop when I see Vanya standing on the other side with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks good in suits, but my mouth waters as I take him in, wearing casual clothes.
Gray suit pants. A dark blue T-shirt clings to his broad chest. Sleeves rolled up, revealing dark ink that snakes up his hands, trailing from his forearms and disappearing beneath his elbows. God. His beauty is blinding. Unfair.
“Well, that didn’t take long.” He smirks, and my eyes drop to his mouth. Those beautiful lips. The ones that dominated mine with delicious heat last night. My own lips tingle at the memory, and I shiver involuntarily.
“Cold?” One brow lifts as his eyes sweep over me.
Then he glances at something behind him, and for the first time I notice the men standing there.
Fuck. When he’s in a room, he demands every ounce of attention.
That’s not good. I take in the men—five in total, including the one who told me about the library.
I’ve never seen the other four. Vanya speaks to one of them in brusque Russian, and I curse myself for never learning the language.
Who knew I’d end up getting tangled up with Russians?
The man responds to him, but I’m already looking past them, scanning the visible rooms for which one might be the new library. One room has its door open just enough for me to glimpse a huge desk and leather chairs. That must be Vanya’s office.
My heart gives a heavy thud as I remember the real reason I’ve been so cooperative. Information. Luciano. I need to go through that office. Could this be my chance?
“Here.” Vanya’s voice pulls my attention back to him just as warmth engulfs me, my thighs clenching as I’m surrounded by his scent, leather and gun-smoke and something colder underneath. He drapes a coat over my shoulders. His coat.
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping away from him to adjust it myself.
“Come.” He crooks a finger and walks down the living area to another open door.
He stops there and gestures inside. Frowning, I approach. The moment I cross the threshold, a loud gasp escapes my lips. It’s the library.