“Your stuff’s in our room.”
My stuff? What stuff?
Wait. Our room?
I walk faster, deciding that investigating is more important.
The room in question is nothing like the rest of the house. Where the lounge was barebones, this place is covered in drawings. Some are by him. Some by me. Some of me. The dates on his drawings of me span the last five years. He has too much pride in his drawings to write the wrong date.
Mismatching side tables sit on either side of the bed. On the right, closer to the door, an energy drink, knife, bottle of cologne, and random screws and bolts are strewn on the bedside table. On the opposite side, an inhaler, a single unopened box of tissues, my favorite hand cream, and a stack of romance books.
His and hers, just like the two dressers in the room. One with clothes sticking out of drawers and body spray on the top. I move closer to the other, where a mirror, hair ties, and ribbons are stored away in glass containers.
Tentatively, I open each drawer, one by one, until my heart sinks to the floor. When I get to the bottom row, I pull out the pair of jeans lying at the very top of the pile—the very pair I couldn’t find this morning.
With shaking hands, I search both drawers for everything I need to shower, but come up empty. Grumbling, I grab the first t-shirt and sweatpants I find, then dart into the bathroom next door. The faint smell of smoke wafts through the house, but it doesn’t overcome the smell of sandalwood and cinnamon clinging to the walls of this place.
How long has he been here? Why the hell did he bring me here? He doesn’t seriously think that keeping me prisoner will work out for him, right?
I don’t like that last question. I’ll fight and argue with him, but how long will it last until I’m back to the girl from before who looked at Roman with rose-tinted, heart-shaped glasses? My mind is at war between the memories of the last three years and the eleven before them, while my body craves his affection, a slave to his touch.
The only upside I’m letting myself see right now is that there seems to be plumbing in this horror house. The downside is that there’s no shower, just a ceramic bathtub that looks as old as time itself. Steam fills the room within seconds of me turning on the faucet.
I use the time waiting for the tub to fill to do a double take at the shampoo and conditioner under the sink. He got the same brand I use. It’s clear Roman has planned his kills and my stay. I’m scared to know what else he has in store for me.
There’s no window I can climb out of to make a run for it. Even if I got out of here, where would I go? The first time I came here, I didn’t see any houses for miles. It’s not like I can get the car keys off him, either. Plus, in my t-shirt and shorts, I’ll probably die of hypothermia before I find any sign of civilization.
The heat of the water thaws my muscles and makes my eyelids grow heavier, but I still feel cold. Fool’s hope is thinking this is all a bad dream. I’d be lying to myself because the only good dreams I’ve had in the last three years have all involved Mickey.
The feeling only gets worse as I slip into the clothes I grabbed in my hurry to get away from him.
My fingers trace the cold metal handle of the bathroom door, and I count to three, summoning as much strength as I can, because all I want to do is lock myself away and pretend that nothing beyond these four walls exists.
Steeling myself, I turn the handle and open the door into my new hell.
Chapter 18
ISABELLA
“You brought me everything except a bra,” I snarl, hands on my hips as I stare Roman down in the kitchen. Any evidence that he was just covered in another person’s blood is gone.
His grin spreads from ear to ear while he shrugs playfully. “Did I? That’s unfortunate.” Red burns my cheeks as he licks his lips, dropping his gaze to my chest, then back up. “If you need someone to hold them for you, I have two very capable hands right here.”
I clear my throat and fold my arms like it might make his hungry gaze disappear. “A bra, Roman. I need a bra because it’s cold.”
The fireplace and thick hoodie are nowhere near enough to compensate for how aggressively my nipples are pushing against the fabric from the chill.
His smile falters, but he recovers by shooting me a wink. “I can tell.”
“You’re not allowed to look at them.” I make myself as small as possible, wishing I sounded more assertive.
The corner of his lips hikes up. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” I raise my chin and look him dead in the eyes in defiance.
He stalks closer, and a slow, mischievous smile crawls across his face. “Careful, it would be so unfortunate if your panties were to go missing as well.”