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“Freak,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I turn to the shower. It’s a walk-in, complete with a marble bench and a shelf containing my body wash, shampoo and conditioner. I swing open the door, crank the knobs, and steam pours out.
Remember Hansel and Gretel—they fell for the candy house and look where that got them. Don’t get seduced by the house.
I undress, step into the shower, and instantly forget my own warning. The hot water is so blissful I just stand there, letting time slip away for what must be an hour. By the time my skin is pruned enough to rival a raisin, I turn off the water, step out, and try to tame the soaking wet rat’s nest on my head. I comb it till my scalp is tender, then I put on the clothes I got out.
Water drips from my hair, soaking the back of my shirt. I’m too exhausted to bother with a blow-dryer, so I shuffle back to the room, eyeing the door Torben used. The bed tempts me, but my stomach has other plans.
Feed me, whore.
Yes, my own stomach called me a whore. I can’t blame her, I am the one who thinks my captor is hot.
If he wants to talk, fine. I might as well let him. I open the door and find Torben looming there. He looks down at me. Is that his approving or frustrated face?
“Do you get Botox?” I blurt out as I brave a step into the hall.
“What?” he pushes off the wall.
Oh, so his face does move. Good to know.
“Never mind.” I wave my hands.
He grumbles in a foreign language.
Rude.
“You ready?” he asks.
“If I said no?” I cross my arms over myself as a chill from the hallway sends a shiver down my spine.
“You can sleep. I’ll have food brought to you.”
My stomach growls again, louder this time.
“Why am I here?”
Torben pushes off the wall and gestures for me to follow. I trail behind, eyes scanning for any possible escape. The house is huge, cold, and modern—poured concrete walls, metal panels. Nothing feels warm. I almost miss the small comfort of my bed.
Torben stops at a staircase made of floating glass steps. “Do you need me to carry you?” he asks, eyeing my soaked ankle wrap and the wet trail I’m leaving behind.
“I’ll get you a dry wrap,” he mutters. “Carry or walk?” he repeats.
“Over my dead body will you carry me.” I shove past him, glaring at the glass steps. “What kind of freak has glass stairs?” I mutter.
“The kind who doesn’t like predators lurking under them,” Torben rebuffs.
“I thought I was safe here.”
“No place is impenetrable.”
My hands hold tight to the railing as I hop down some steps and wobble over others. “What’s his name?” I ask.
Torben doesn’t answer me at first; instead, he glides down the stairs past me and waits for me at the bottom. Once I reach the platform, he replies, “Steffen.”
I let his name linger on my tongue like a new spice. I hate that I like it—the taste, the sound, the man himself.
Steffen is right; there’s a pull between us, a chemistry that crackles every time our eyes meet. A spark that’s already snared me.
“This way,” Torben says, leading me through the sprawling first floor, past endless sitting rooms and a dining room—seriously, who needs this many rooms?
