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.

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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.”

I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

It's useless trying to ignore how close he is and how small I am compared to him. I’m caught in the web of his ravenous stare, the brush of his chest against my folded arms, freezing me in place.

He could bend down and kiss me or pull me into his hold for the third time today. The worst part about this is that my brain will scream at me, just like it is now, to run away from the predator in the black hoodie, but my body will develop a mind of its own.

“Try me.”

A lump lodges in my throat. There’s one thing that hasn’t crossed my mind since he came back: what he said to me three years ago. He was waiting until I was eighteen to seal the deal.

I’m twenty now, and they aren’t empty threats or mindless sexual jokes. He means everything that comes out of his sinful mouth.

I breathe a sigh of relief when whatever he’s cooking in the pan starts hissing, releasing me from my trance. My freedom is short-lived when I become transfixed with watching him move through the kitchen, opening cupboards and dishing plates. Tension lines his jaw, but there’s an ease to his motions, as if he has finally let his guard down.

“I promise you that you will never go hungry again.” I catch a glimpse of the well-stocked pantry, but I don’t say anything. “Sit.” He nods to the bacon and eggs on the table.

My protest drowns when my stomach grumbles. Eyeing him warily, I plant myself on the seat. The ire in my veins soars to a new high as he drags the chair from across the round table to sit by my side.

I narrow my eyes at him as he plops down and pretends like he isn’t so close that our chairs are touching. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Eating,” he says with a full mouth. “You should too.”

Whatever. I'll allow this because I'm hungry.

My hand stills when it's halfway to my mouth, a sudden terrifying thought coming to me. Who’s to say he didn’t slip some poison into my food? What if he knocks me out, and I wake up chained like a dog?

Not missing my hesitation, voice low, he says, “Eat the damn food, Bella.”

I drop my fork onto the plate. “You could have poisoned it.”

His brows hike up to his hairline. “And you think I would ruin perfectly good food by doing that? It would be easier to just use a rag or syringe.”

“If you’re trying to convince me that you haven’t tried to poison me, it isn’t working.”

He grins, only making me feel worse. “Just eat the food.” When I don’t, he rolls his eyes. “Do you think I would try to kill you after everything?”

“I don’t know. Do I need to give you a recount of the past twenty-four hours?” Tugging up my sleeves, I show him my wrists and the faint outline of the rope.

He exhales loudly and reaches over and helps himself to my plate. “See,” he says, bringing the fork to his mouth, chewing quickly, then swallowing. “No poison. Now, eat.”

Satisfied I’m not about to get drugged, I eat my breakfast, all too aware of his body close to mine. Every time I try to scoot my chair away, he drags me back to where I was. Even when I’m on the very edge of my seat, trying to put as much space between us, he smirks and shuffles closer until we’re practically sharing a single chair.

“Stop it,” I snap.

“Just let me love you,” he teases.

He meant it innocently, something for the both of us to laugh at or for me to fume over while he giggles to himself. But I’m not laughing, and fuming doesn’t begin to describe it.

“Love me? What a fucking joke, Roman. You left me.” I was compliant and complacent, letting my emotions bubble and boil. Now I’m exhausted and infuriated. There isn’t an excuse in the world to justify what he did.

I jump to my feet while glaring at him, hoping he can see that I want him to get up. I want to yell and scream. He has said many things tonight, but none of them answered anything. I want him to know that my soul hurts, and I don’t forgive him.