Chapter 17 Mara #2
I drain the glass and hand it back to him, coughing at the burn in my throat. I don’t move, my feet feeling as if they’re frozen in place to the warm tiles of the bathroom floor.
"I'll draw you a bath," Ilya says, his gaze fixed on my face. "You need to clean up properly."
I nod. Words seem impossible. Everything feels impossible.
He moves to the large soaking tub and turns on the water. The sound of it filling is loud in the quiet bathroom. He adds something from a bottle—bath oil, maybe, or salts. The scent rises with the steam, herbal and clean.
When the tub is half full, he turns back to me. "Can you undress, or do you need help?"
I should feel embarrassed at the thought of this man seeing me naked, in the flesh. I should feel vulnerable. He’s been stalking me, and now he’s offering to help me out of my clothes.
But even that fact feels far away. Like something far down a tunnel that I recognize, but can’t quite make out.
I try to pull my shirt over my head, but my hands are shaking too badly. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, and I can't seem to coordinate my movements.
Ilya steps forward. "Let me."
He helps me out of my clothes with the same careful gentleness he used to wash my hands.
It’s oddly almost clinical, like he's a doctor and I'm a patient. He doesn't look at my body with desire or possession, which feels strange, given the hungry way he’s looked at me in the past. But now, as my clothes shed off like layers of skin, there’s no need in his eyes, only worry.
When I'm naked, he takes my hand and helps me into the tub. The hot water envelops me, and I sink into it with a gasp. It's almost too hot, but the heat feels good. The near-pain of it jolts me back into my senses again.
"I'll be outside if you need anything," Ilya says calmly. "Take your time."
Then he's gone, closing the door behind him, and I'm finally alone.
The silence is overwhelming, just me and the sound of water lapping as I move, and my own ragged breathing.
I look down at my hands under the water. They're clean now, the blood washed away. But I can still feel the weight of the sculpture in my grip, the resistance when it connected with the man’s skull, the way his body went limp.
I killed someone tonight.
I don’t even know his name.
The reality of it crashes over me in waves. I took a life. Ended someone's existence. No matter that he was trying to hurt me, no matter that it was self-defense, the fact remains: I killed him.
What does that make me? A murderer? Is it murder if it was because I had no other choice?
I sink deeper into the water, letting it cover my shoulders, my neck, trying to process everything that's happened—to make sense of the impossible situation I'm in.
I'm in my stalker's apartment. The man who's been sending me gifts, who cut off Richard Maxwell's hand, who beat Daniel bloody, who's been watching me for months. I'm in his home, in his bathtub, naked and vulnerable.
The Russian mafia is after me. The Bratva. Words I've only heard in movies, in news articles about organized crime. But it's real. That man tonight was real. Sergei Kima is real. And they want to hurt me because of Ilya, because I matter to him.
I'm in danger from people I didn't know existed until tonight.
And Ilya—Ilya Sorokov—is the same person as the man from Boston.
The man who looked at me in that gallery like he could see straight through to my soul.
The man who made me feel more alive with a look than I ever have while being fucked by someone else.
The man I haven't been able to stop thinking about since I saw him on a sidewalk in front of my best friend’s house.
He's been orchestrating all of this. He's been in this building, looking across at my apartment, learning my routines, my preferences, my life.
And I kissed him outside the gallery.
That memory surfaces, sharp and clear despite the shock: his mouth on mine, rough and possessive. The way my body responded, the way I kissed him back with the same desperate intensity.
Some part of me—some dark, twisted part that I don't want to acknowledge—some part of me isn't sorry I'm here.
The thought horrifies me.
I should be planning how to get out of here, how to go to the police, how to save myself.
But I'm so tired. So tired of being afraid, of looking over my shoulder, of jumping at shadows.
And there's something about him—about the intensity of his obsession, the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters—that calls to something in me.
I've been looking for something this intense my whole life.
Something that makes me feel alive, that breaks through the numbness of everyday existence.
I've been drawn to darkness in art, in literature, in music, for as long as I can remember.
The conflict of light and dark. The romance of it. The fear and the hope.
And now I've found it. Or it's found me.
It's sick. Twisted. Wrong in every possible way. But I can't deny that part of me has been waiting for this. For someone to see me this completely, to want me this desperately, to be willing to destroy everything for me.
The realization makes me feel sick all over again.
I stay in the bath until the water starts to cool, until my fingers are pruny and my skin is pink from the heat. I can't stay in here forever, no matter how much I want to hide from reality.
Finally, I force myself to stand, the water sluicing off my body as I step out onto the bath mat. There are towels on a heated rack, which is a luxury I don’t want to appreciate but do. I pull one down. It's thick and soft and I wrap myself in it, feeling my throat burn.
I dry off slowly and methodically, trying not to think or feel anything at all. When I'm dry, I wrap the towel around myself and look in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger—pale and hollow-eyed, my hair damp and tangled. I look like a shell of myself right now, and I wonder how long, exactly, I’ve looked like this. Like this thing with Ilya is draining me dry.
I open the bathroom door, and steam follows me out into the bedroom. The air is cooler, and I shiver despite the towel. Then, as I look toward the bed, I freeze in my tracks.
There are clothes laid out on the bed. Not just any clothes—not Ilya’s loungewear repurposed for me or some other woman’s ill-fitting clothes, but ones that look as if they’ve been selected just for me.
A cashmere sweater in deep gray. Soft leggings in black, black knit, plush socks.
Silky black underwear in a bikini style with a lace edge. A black lace bralette.
And all of it has tags still attached. It’s brand new, and it looks as if it was purchased specifically for me.
I pick up the sweater and check the size. It's perfect. Exactly right. The leggings too, and the underwear. Everything is exactly my size.
The realization hits me like a physical blow.
He's been planning this. Planning to bring me here. He had clothes waiting, knew my exact size, knew what I'd like. This wasn't a spontaneous decision made in the chaos of tonight. This was premeditated.
He knew I'd end up here… knew he'd bring me to his penthouse eventually. And he prepared for it.
I remember the rose in my bedroom. He must have gone through my things. My clothes, my underwear, memorized everything I wear and the correct sizes. This is a stunning violation of my privacy, an intrusion beyond anything I’ve ever experienced in my entire life, and yet…
It feels strangely, almost uncomfortably like… being cared for.
He paid attention to what I like, what would make me comfortable. He thought about what I'd need. He remembered my sizes. Considered what I’d like best and wanted to make sure it fit, that it suited me.
But he also assumed I'd be here—that he'd get me here one way or another.
The presumption of it, the arrogance, makes anger start to burn through the shock.
How dare he? How dare he plan my life like this, make decisions about my future, prepare for my presence in his home like it was inevitable?
My jaw clenches as I stand there shivering in the towel, the heat long since gone from it. I should refuse to wear the clothes. Demand my own things, anything except accept what he's laid out for me.
But… I’m cold. I don’t want to argue with him in nothing but a towel. I can’t exactly just put my old clothes back on; they’re covered in blood.
I make a snap decision, drop the towel and start getting dressed, my movements sharp and angry.
The underwear slides over my skin, decadent silk and lace that feels as if he bought it for me with lascivious things in mind.
I can feel my skin heating as I put it on, and a flash enters my mind of what his face might look like if he saw me in this.
What did he do while he watched me? Did he ever…
The thought of Ilya watching me at the windows, touching himself while he did so, doesn’t disgust me the way it should. It doesn’t make me as angry or as afraid as it should. I feel all of those emotions: fear, anger, a crawling sense of unease and shame… but also something else, too.
This powerful, wealthy man, this man who could have anyone he wants, has been watching me.
Desiring me. Plotting out how to welcome me into his home.
He’s been in my apartment, in my bedroom; his hands have been all over my things.
He might have pleasured himself watching me, gotten off to the thought of having me…
Despite myself, I feel a jolt of arousal, spiking between my thighs and sending prickles of desire over my skin. I feel hot, damp between my thighs, restless and suddenly aching for something that I don’t entirely understand.
I’m no stranger to sex, but this doesn’t feel like your run-of-the-mill hookup. This feels like something devastating and undeniable and more.