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Or corpses,offers the true-crime-poisoned half of my brain.

Corpses or not, though, Lukas was right: I didn’t sleep on the plane and I am in fact exhausted. I’m out before my head fully hits the pillow.

I wake up in a panic. For a second, I don’t know where I am, who I am, what time is it, anything.

Then it all comes flooding back.

France. Lukas. The bathroom with no lock.

I sit up and look around. Everything is exactly as I left it, except for one thing: There’s a simple sundress draped over the armchair by the window. It’s a peach-colored cotton with delicate straps, light and functional. The simple underwear folded beneath it actually looks like underwear instead of vagina floss, for which I am eternally grateful. On the floor are a pair of leather sandals.

I scoop up the pile and head for the bathroom.

The shower is one of those old European contraptions with creaky brass fixtures and water pressure that could strip the paint off a warship. I crank the handle to scalding and step beneath the spray with my back to the door.

Theunlockeddoor.

I can’t stop thinking about it. My whole body is a live wire, every nerve ending crackling with awareness. The steam curls around me and fogs the mirror, but it does nothing to obscure the image seared into my brain: that brass handle. That unlocked, unguarded, completely-accessible-to-anyone-who-might-want-to-walk-in-but-especially-to-Lukas-Lazarev handle.

He wouldn’t.

… But he could.

I risk a glance over my shoulder. The handle sits there, innocently shining through the steam. Motionless.

I’m being silly. This whole thing is crazy, of course, but even he wouldn’t go that far. Would he? No. But maybe…?

Shut up, Rae. Just shower and breathe.

I tip my head back under the spray and let the water pound against my skull. My fingers tremble as I reach for the shampoo. I remind myself that I’m a grown woman. I’ve showered in public gyms, in college dorms with coed bathrooms. That was all fine, so why wouldn’t this be?

Answer: Because none of those places had Lukas Lazarev on the other side of the wall.

What would you even do if he walked in?

Scream. Obviously. Cover myself. Demand he leave.

Would you, though?

I sneak another look at the handle.

A little demon in me, something shameful and small, almostwishesit would turn. Just so this unbearable tension would break. Just so I could stopimaginingand startknowing.

And then I could be appropriately horrified. Outraged. Violated. Aghast.

Instead of...this.

I scrub my skin with soap until it stings to punish myself for thoughts I shouldn’t be having. The water drums against my back as I wash with ruthless efficiency—shampoo, rinse, soap, rinse. No giving my untrustworthy brain more time to wander.

When I’m done, I dry off hurriedly and pull on the new clothes. They fit to perfection. Once again, I am unsurprised.

I slip out of the room and tread nervously down the hall, back the way we came in here. The staircase groans under my sandals as I descend. I keep one hand trailing along the worn wooden banister.

I’m halfway down when I see him.

Lukas stands in the foyer below, backlit by the last of the afternoon sun through the tall windows. He’s changed out of his suit into something I never expected to see: dark linen trousers and a simple white button-down shirt, untucked, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His silver hair is damp from his own shower, pushed back from his forehead in a way that makes him look almost human.

The casual clothes do nothing to diminish the sheer mass of him, though. On the contrary, they make it worse. Without the armor of a tailored suit, I can see the thick cords of muscle in his forearms, the tendons in his broad neck.