Page 53 of Last Hand

“We wait to hear from Mikhail, then we get her back.”

TWELVE

Fallon

The shower-head sputters weakly, coughing out streams of water that barely reach my shoulders. My fingers twitch against the slick tiles as I brace myself for the next surge, the pressure is pitiful. Apparently the tanks are low, and Mikhail has ordered water to be dropped off tomorrow.

A marble bathroom. Gold taps. Scented soap arranged in delicate shapes on a porcelain tray. Everything here screams wealth, sophistication, control— it’s all a lie. The marble has hairline cracks running through it, like spiderwebs hidden under polished surfaces. The gold has tarnished edges if you look close enough. Even the soap reeks too strongly of lavender, a cloying sweetness that sticks to your skin no matter how many times you rinse it off. It’s a façade, just like everything else in this house. It’s like Mikhail is trying his best to keep up appearances while taking shortcuts, his wealth clearly nothing on Leone’s, though it is still sickening. It seems he put most of his money into his surveillance and men.

I scrub faster, harder, dragging the rough cloth over my arms until my skin burns red.

My nails dig into the cloth as I press harder, harder still, hoping that maybe if I scrape deep enough, I can peel away the memory of this place—the suffocating silence, the heavy air that smells faintly of old wood.

No matter how much I scrub, the sensation lingers: the weight of invisible eyes on me, the cold knot in my stomach that tightens every time I hear footsteps in the hall.

Especially now. Especially with him standing there.

Igor leans against the doorframe like he belongs there, like he owns the space.

His arms are crossed over his broad chest, muscles taut beneath his black shirt. One boot is kicked out lazily in front of him, scuffed leather resting against the edge of the doorframe as though he’s settling in for a show. There’s an infuriating ease to his posture, a casual confidence that makes my teeth clench. He doesn’t say anything, he never does—his presence fills the room like smoke curling into every corner, heavy and suffocating.

The steam from the shower swirls around him in thin tendrils, softening his sharp features while doing nothing to dull the menace etched into them. His face is carved from stone: high cheekbones, a strong jawline shadowed by a day’s stubble, lips pressed into a flat line.

It’s his eyes that unsettle me most—cold and unblinking, pale gray like winter skies before a storm. They don’t just look at me; they dissect me, peeling back layers with an unnerving precision as though searching for something I don’t even know I’m hiding.

“Do you mind?” My voice wavers despite my best effort to sound steady. I turn my back to him before he can respond—not that he ever does—and focus on dragging the cloth down my arms again. My fingers tremble slightly as they grip the fabric, each motion mechanical and deliberate as though pretending he’s not there might make it true.

Every night Igor watches me shower. I’m not allowed privacy. Mikhail doesn’t want me “getting ideas.”

I rinse my hair as quickly as I can, keeping my eyes on the soap dish which glints his reflection at me so I can see if he moves. Every second I spend here, naked and exposed, is another second Igor pretends he’s a guard and not a voyeur. And I pretend I don’t want to scream.

“Two minutes,” he says flatly, voice echoing in the tiled space.

I step out while water still drips down my legs, reaching for the thin towel hanging near the sink. It’s scratchy and damp. It doesn’t cover much. That’s the point.

Igor watches me wrap it around myself, his eyes trailing over my bare shoulders, my bruised knees. When his gaze lingers too long there, I peer up and meet his eyes.

“Are you done?” I ask, voice low.

He doesn’t answer. He turns and walks out, leaving the door open. He just expects me to follow. Reluctantly, I do as he leads me to the room by the basement. He shoves the door open, and points to the small lamp table in the corner by the armchair. This room is some surveillance room; cameras line the wall, staring into all the main areas and the basement. There are also a few cameras in the forest surrounding the property. I move toward the lamp table picking up the thin slip dress, which is so thin it’s almost sheer.

I slide the flimsy fabric over my head. It clings, cold and damp against my still-wet skin, offering about as much modesty as a whisper. I can see the faint outline of my own goosebumps through it. My nipples pebble hard.

Igor hasn’t moved. He’s still by the door, a dark silhouette against the dim hallway light, his gaze fixed on me. Or, more accurately, fixed on the way the dress reveals more than it conceals. I can feel the heat of his stare on my skin, a pricklingsensation that makes me want to shrink away, to cover myself, to scream until my throat is raw. Instead, I stand there, straight-backed, meeting his silent scrutiny with a glare of my own.

Igor finally pushes himself off the doorframe, his head tilting to the side for a moment.

“Igor?” I stammer not liking the way he is staring. His boots thud heavily on the wooden floor as he moves toward me. The next second he speaks with a thick Russian accent.

“You’ve been here for roughly three and a half weeks…” My eyes widen when his hand reaches for me, his long fingers scrunching the thin fabric of my dress as he yanks me toward him.

A shriek leaves my lips, and I react without thinking, my hand moves before my mind has a chance to catch up and stop myself. The sting of my hand on his face burns violently, his head doesn’t turn like one would expect. The shock of it though seems to stop him momentarily as he peers down at me. His face twists angrily. His hand still scrunched in the flimsy fabric rips me so close I crash against him. He moves quickly, turning me and bracing one arm across my chest, his hand squeezing my breast harshly while the other smooths down the front of my dress and stops below my navel. Right over the barely-there curve I’ve been trying so desperately to hide.

“I haven’t seen you bleed once,” he murmurs into my ear.

His hand tightens, spreading wide.

“See this,” he says, fingers curling, clutching the tiny bump like he owns it. “This little swell tells me everything.”

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