The door closed behind Dante with a quiet thud, but it might as well have been a bomb going off.
Flinching slightly at the sound, Mila let out a long breath that she had been holding in for a while. Her entire body was tense as she waited for the next shoe to fall... for the next person to enter the room without asking for permission.
When she thought enough time had passed, she slowly forced her tight muscles to loosen.
Yes, the door was technically locked, she had heard the softest click when Dante closed it, but she knew damn well that the lock meant jack shit. After all, it was meant to keep her in, not other people out.
Letting out another long sigh, she slowly pushed herself up, her face scrunching up in pain for just a second before she forced a more neutral expression on her face. The movement made the wound and stitches protest, but she couldn't just lie here.
She needed to move, even if it was just to do something as small and mundane as washing her hands.
The shirt she was wearing fell off her arms the moment she stood up, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap and leaving her standing in just her jeans and bra.
She felt vulnerable, naked, and she hated that feeling more than she hated being locked in a room without a key.
Forcing herself to calm down, Mila wrinkled her nose. The smell of cold, dried blood clung to her skin, and her stomach rolled when she caught it again.
She hated that smell... always had, always would. It never failed to bring her right back to places she didn't want to remember.
What she needed to do was get clean.
Looking around the room, she spotted the opened bathroom door. She hadn't noticed it at first, too distracted by the size of the bedroom, but now she walked toward it, her bare feet sinking into a rug that was probably worth more than her monthly rent.
She snorted at that idea. She was pretty sure that the toilet paper here was worth more than her monthly rent.
Stepping into the bathroom, she stopped short.
Scratch that. The bathroom here was bigger than her entire apartment back home.
White marble stretched across the floor and up the walls, polished so clean it reflected light back at her. A massive tub sat beneath a wide window, deep enough that it really could have doubled as a small swimming pool. The shower took up an entire corner, glass walls enclosing more showerheads than she could count.
Rain. Steam. Side jets. Handheld.
She stared at it, disbelief curling in her chest. Who the hell needed all this? Were people really spending that much time in a shower? Didn't they know that water costs money? Money that could better be spent on other things? Like food?
The counter was marble too, wide and spotless, with sinks that looked sculpted rather than installed. Thick, fluffy white towels were stacked neatly on open shelves, untouched and inviting.
She swallowed. This should have been a dream, but it wasn't.
However, it was better than any nightmare she ever had before.
Mila reached up and unhooked her bra carefully, wincing when the movement pulled at her shoulder. She let it drop to the floor, then stepped out of her jeans and socks, into the shower and turned the water on without thinking.
Hot water burst from above without even needing time to warm up first.
She sucked in a sharp breath as it hit her skin.
God.
The heat wrapped around her, sinking deep into her bones, and loosening something tight in her chest that she hadn't even realized she was holding.
She braced one hand against the marble wall and closed her eyes, breathing slowly as the water ran over her hair, her back, her arms.
Blood washed away in thin red lines, disappearing down the drain in a hypnotic spiral.
She exhaled shakily.
This wasn't the first time she'd been hurt.
If the doctor had looked closer—really looked—he would have seen the faint silver scars scattered across her back. Old ones, newer ones, but all of them thin and jagged from being healed badly. Reminders of nights that hadn't ended nearly as cleanly as this one did.
Just because this was the first time she'd been shot didn't mean it was the first time she'd bled.
The water helped. The heat steadied her breathing, grounded her in her body instead of her head.
She needed to think.
She tipped her face into the spray and forced herself to focus.
She wasn't leaving anytime soon. That much was obvious.
No one built a place like this and let people walk out whenever they felt like it. And she wasn't dumb enough to test her luck trying to escape a fortress guarded by armed men and dogs.
That meant she had to adapt to her current situation and fast.
She couldn't get any legitimate jobs from here. No waitressing. No temp work. No tutoring gigs. Everything she normally relied on was gone. That only left her with the not so legal options.
After all, there were a lot of people depending on her for money.
Her chest tightened as she came to yet another realization.
Crap.
Her computer.
Mila straightened abruptly, then hissed when her shoulder protested.
Her laptop was still at the café.
Her stomach dropped as she banged her head against the wall of the shower, wondering just how stupid she had to be to have left it there.
It was her baby. Custom-built, encrypted six different ways to Sunday. She had spent years tweaking it, protecting it, making sure no one but her could ever get into it.
It didn't matter who found it. No one was unlocking it.
But still.
She hated the idea of it sitting there. Abandoned and vulnerable.
She ran a hand through her hair, water streaming down her arm.
Maybe she could get it back.
It was clear that Dante had resources, influence that she didn't have. Not to mention he clearly wasn't hurting for money. If she framed it right, he might see it as another way to "protect" her.
Or—
She frowned.
Or she could ask for a new computer.
The thought settled in, uncomfortable but practical.
She hated relying on anyone, but right now, she was stuck in a mansion she couldn't leave. Hell, she didn't even have any clothes other than a bloody bra and jeans.
Pride wasn't going to help her survive this, but a computer would.
Not to mention, she could always tweak whatever he gave her into what she needed.
She turned the water off reluctantly, the sudden quiet making the room feel too big again. She reached for one of the towels, wrapping it carefully around herself. It was thick. Warm. Absurdly soft.
She'd never owned anything like it.
Mila dried off slowly, avoiding her shoulder, then tied it tightly around her so that it wouldn't slip off. She had no clothes, and she had no idea if there was anything in the closet for her to use. She would have to try and see if there was something she could use.
She stepped back into the bedroom, scanning it with sharper eyes now.
She was looking for cameras. There were multiple ones in the hallway when Dante escorted her to the room.
She didn't see any, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Maybe they were just better hidden.
Someone knocked lightly before opening the door. A woman stepped inside, carrying a tray.
"Dinner," she offered politely. "If you're hungry."
Mila eyed the food. It smelled good. Too good.
"Thank you, you can leave it over there," she replied, pointing to a table. "Please."
The woman hesitated, then nodded and set it down on the table before leaving.
The door closed.
Locked again.
Mila sat on the edge of the bed, towel-dried hair falling over her shoulders, and stared at the food without touching it.
She needed information.
Dante thought he was keeping her safe, and he might be...
But she wasn't helpless.
She walked over to the table and sat down in front of the food, her eyes going to the feast in front of her.
At least she wouldn't be going hungry.