Page 20 of Gilded Locks

“Come on, printsessa.” Ash reached for her. “Let’s take a walk—just the two of us.”

As trusting as a lamb off to slaughter, she slipped her fingers into his warm grip and nodded. He firmly grasped her hand, gently pulling her to the edge of the bed. Stone and Hunter watched as she slid to her feet.

“There’s a good girl.” Ash tucked her hair behind her ear. “Looks like you could use some first aid, too. I have just the stuff.”

Her hand fluttered to her temple where his gaze focused, and she felt the crust of dried blood. He pulled her hand away from the sore spot.

“Careful. If it starts bleeding again, you might need a stitch.”

What the hell was happening? Why was he being so nice to her?

He wove his large fingers between hers and glanced back at the guys. “We’ll be back in a while.”

Silently, she let him lead her out of the room where she could breathe a little easier. She tested his honesty by cutting right to the point. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Turns out, I’m a nice guy.” His accent wasn’t as thick as the others’, and she wondered if Russian was his native tongue or something he’d learned through association.

“Are those men your brothers?”

“As far as you or anyone else is concerned, yes.”

That didn’t exactly answer her question. “You’re not Russian.”

“Very good, printsessa.”

“But your brothers are.”

“Correct.”

“And you’re not British.”

“Correct again.” He released her hand and pressed his large palm to the small of her back, urging her through the door of a dark room. “I’m a Volkov. End of story.”

His tone made it clear that the story was not a public one, but she imagined he’d paid his dues to adopt their last name and surrender his own. In some ways, bonds as loyal as theirs were far thicker than blood and water.

The lights flickered on, and she found herself standing in a large bathroom. “I’m afraid your sea adventures have left you a bit…odorous. There’s soap and toiletries in the drawer. You have five minutes.” He backed out of the room, and the door clicked.

She tested the gilded knob, only to find it locked. Wasting no time, she rushed to the standing shower and turned the golden handle to the highest setting of heat. Steam filled the room, and she quickly undressed.

The spray announced cuts and bruises she hadn’t catalogued. Grime funneled down the drain, and her muscles unfurled under the warm water. She didn’t have time to luxuriate, knowing Ash would be back in less than two minutes, so she quickly washed the dirt from her body and did her best to detangle her long curls—pausing briefly to appreciate the delicate citrus scent of the products. But when she tried to read the labels, they were written in a different language, with an alphabet she didn’t recognize.

The door opened just as she was wrapping herself in a plush towel. She looked through the steam at Ash, nervously.

“Another sweater.” He handed over the folded wool and turned his back. “We’ll see about getting you some better-fitting clothes.”

His respect for her modesty surprised her. “Thank you.”

He turned just as the sweater fell down her thighs. Taking a step closer, he inspected her clean face. “You’ve had quite a journey.” He lifted her fingers, noting how her nails had chipped and broken. He reached behind her and opened a drawer. “For your hair.” He placed a wide-toothed comb in her hand.

Marigold had read stories about kidnappers showing kindness to their captives. It was a sort of grooming meant to condition them for other things. As she detangled her curls, she watched Ash’s reflection in the mirror, but his focus was elsewhere. Only when she set down the comb did he meet her stare in the glass.

“Ready?”

Her mind screamed no, but she nodded anyway.

The kitchen was every bit as impressive in daylight as it had been during her desperate midnight raid. Gleaming steel appliances caught morning light like mirrors, granite countertops reflected her uncertain face, and windows offered stunning views of the storm-ravaged landscape. The world was buried in ice and snow, and she felt as if they were encased in time.

Ash moved through the space with proprietorial ease. “First, we play doctor.”