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There’s no window large enough in the bathroom for her to escape out of. Still, I stalk down the hall, pacing, waiting for the sound of the water to shut off, to make sure that she doesn’t try to escape out of another room. All of the windows are locked,and they’re difficult to break, but I wouldn’t put anything past Valentina.

Valentina. I’m still not entirely sure that she’s telling me the whole truth about her name, but after she’s given it a second time, I’m more inclined to think that it might really be her name. The one she goes by, at least.

I pace back to the living room, feeling exhaustion starting to creep in as the adrenaline that’s been carrying me finally starts to ebb away. I try not to think about her slender body naked in the shower, soap gliding down her skin, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders. I try to ignore the way the image makes my cock start to swell, my body still hungry for her despite everything she’s done.

My wife. My prisoner.

Valentina Kane.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and pace down the hall and back again.

The bathroom door opens after nearly thirty minutes, releasing a cloud of steam into the main room. I turn to look, and my breath catches in my throat despite myself when I see her.

She’s wearing a pair of jeans that I grabbed for her, a loose-cut pair with the ankles rolled up, and an overlarge T-shirt. If it’s meant to make her seem disarming, it’s not working—clothes aren’t enough to make me think that she’s not dangerous. And if it’s meant to make her seem unsexy, that’s not working either.

I know everything that’s under those clothes. Her wet hair is slicked back from her face, emphasizing her large eyes and high cheekbones, and she still looks as beautiful as she always does. There’s nothing about her that could change that. Desire throbs through me, and I clear my throat, taking a step back.

"Feel better?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

She gives a small nod, hesitating at the threshold of the bathroom door. I can see the calculation in her eyes, theassessment of the space, of me, of her options. Always thinking, always planning.

I gesture down the hall. “Back to the living room. Take a seat.” My tone brooks no argument, but I wonder if she’ll try anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me. She’s been remarkably compliant so far, which feels like a trap.

Or maybe she just knows she’s lost. Somehow, that thought makes my chest feel hollow.

She walks ahead of me into the living room, sinking back into the same armchair gracefully, perched on the edge as if preparing to move at a moment’s notice. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything that’s left unsaid.

"Tell me everything," I finally say, standing across from her, leaning against the mantle of the fireplace. A stupid thing to have in a house in Florida. "Start with your real name."

Her chin tilts up, a flash of annoyance in her eyes. "I already told you. Valentina Kane."

“So you’re sticking to that.” I pause. “Is your father Nicholas Kane?”

She hesitates, as if I’ve posed a question she doesn’t quite know how to answer. Finally, she lets out a slow breath, drumming her fingers on her knees. “He’s not my father,” she says finally.

“But you are associated with him?”

She nods.

"As what? His personal assassin?" The bitterness in my voice is unmistakable.I’ve been lied to. Tricked.I feel like something was stolen from me, but it’s something that never really existed.

Her eyes meet mine, and strangely, I think I see a hint of that same bitterness reflected there. "Yes."

The admission feels like a blow to the chest, more painful than I’d expected. The pieces were all there, but having her slotthem together so neatly, so simply… I swallow hard, shifting tactics for a moment.

“How many?”

There’s a flicker of surprise in her gaze; she hadn’t expected the change in questioning. “How many…?”

“How many people have you killed?” I clarify.

She shrugs. “I don’t keep count.”

“Most assassins do.”

She snorts, the most personality I’ve seen from her since she woke up. “Serial killers keep count of their kill lists, Konstantin. Military snipers, maybe, so they can feel confident about how longsomethingis, at least. I don’t bother.”

I study her face, looking for signs of remorse, of regret. I can see a tiredness in her eyes as she speaks, but no shame. This is who she is, and she’s not ashamed of it.