He’d caught sight of my face and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, don’t go and make this about you.”

“No, it’s never about me, is it, Adrian? It’s always about you. You’re the only one who feels anything. You’re the only one who lost anything.”

“Anything?” he roared, jerking upright. “I’ve lost fucking everything!”

Then he’d grabbed the little glass ashtray next to the sofa and flung it across the room. It hit the wall behind the TV and erupted like a hailstorm. Glass shattered everywhere, and one rebellious shard tore open my arm.

I didn’t even notice it at first. Neither did he. I felt the sticky wetness trickle down to my fingers only after he’d stormed out of the house to drink some more.

He’d never asked me about the bandage on my forearm. Twenty-four hours later, when he finally came home, he’d sauntered into the house, approached me while I was washing dishes at the sink, and hugged me from behind.

“You’re the one good thing left in my life, Junepenny. You know that, right?”

I should have told him to leave and never come back. But God, I just needed to be held right then. I needed someone to help keep all my pieces together.

He gave me that when I needed it most.

But it came with a price, of course. Letting him off the hook didn’t make him love me more. It just made him realize he could twist me around his little finger and I would bend.

My eyes fly open when the bathroom door opens and Kolya steps back in. It’s misty in here now, enough to obscure everything but those eyes of his. “Ready to get out?” he asks.

He helps me out of the bathtub, but he doesn’t hand me the towel like I expect. Instead, he takes it up and starts drying me off himself. I watch him in silent awe, marveling at the way he can hand out orders one minute and take care of me the next.

When I’m dry, he puts the towel back on the rack and heads out into the bedroom, leaving me to follow behind.

I look around for my slip or my robe, but I find neither. So I enter the bedroom stark naked, feeling self-conscious and a little cold. One look around the room tells me that my slip and robe aren’t in here, either.

And neither is my suitcase.

“Kolya,” I say, feeling more and more uneasy, “where are my clothes?”

He turns to me with one raised eyebrow. “Your clothes?” he asks innocently. “Why would you need those?”

His stance is rigid, his expression even more so. It’s sending warning signals running down my back.

“You just said I’ll freeze to death. Is this really helping with that?”

He grabs a thick blanket off the bed and tosses it to me. I don’t miss the way his eyes graze over my body before I manage to secure the blanket around me.