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Eventually, I got up, wrapped myself in a blanket, and retrieved the laptop from the bag. True to his word, the Wi-Fi password was on a sticky note inside.

I set up at the small desk, logged in, and opened the design files I needed to finish.

Work had always been my refuge; I buried myself in it when life got too complicated. Now, as I lost myself in color palettes and typography, I tried not to think about what I’d just done. About Mikhail’s hands on my body, the sound of his voice in my ear, the way he’d looked at me when?—

No. Work now. Existential crisis about sleeping with my kidnapper later.

I was deep in my flow state hours later when the door opened again. I’d expected it to be Galina, but it was Mikhail who entered, carrying a tray.

“You need to eat if you’re gonna be working through the night,” he said, setting it down beside my laptop.

“Thanks.” I saved my work but didn’t look up at him.

He didn’t leave. Instead, he stood there, watching me work for a moment.

“Is it all good?” he asked, nodding at the screen.

“Sure.” I wasn’t sure if he was genuinely interested or just making awkward conversation.

“Your client will be satisfied?”

“My client is never satisfied. But he’ll pay.”

He made a sound that might have been amusement.

I finally looked up at him. He’d showered; his hair was still damp at the temples. He’d changed into a black t-shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the size of hisarms.

“Any word from my father?” I asked, because it seemed safer than commenting on how good he looked.

His expression darkened. “Yes. There is… a complication.”

“What kind of complication?”

“The kind that means you will be here longer than expected.”

Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us. What had happened between us had just become more complicated by an order of magnitude.

“I see,” I said. “Good thing you let me use the Wi-Fi, then.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Yes. Good thing.”

He turned to leave.

I turned back to my laptop, but the design on the screen seemed less important somehow. I thought about the consequences of what we’d done. About the man who’d kidnapped me, then fucked me, and then brought me food.

Stockholm syndrome, my rational brain supplied. But it felt like something else, something more complicated than that.

I shook my head and focused on the screen. One problem at a time:

Finish the design.

Meet the deadline.

Figure out what my father had stolen.

Deal with the fact that I’d just had the best sex of my life with a Russian criminal… later.

CHAPTER 4