He watched her through the cracked door, one hand resting on the frame like he had all the time in the world. No cameras tonight. No windows. Just shadows. Real ones.
She never checked behind the door.
She never thought to.
The bathroom was hot — fog clinging to the mirror, steam rolling off her skin in slow ribbons. She stood beneath the water, back arched slightly, letting it pour over her shoulders like she was rinsing off sin. She had no idea what she looked like from the outside. No idea what she did to a man like him.
She wasn't tall, not quite slender either. She had softness in places she tried to hide beneath sweaters and oversized coats. But in the steam, she was everything — thighs marked with faint shadows of muscle, hips wide enough to grip, breasts that rose and fell with every deep breath like they'd been made to be held.
She tilted her head forward, eyes closed, water cascading down her spine. He watched a single bead trail along the curve of her lower back and disappear between her legs. He followed it with his eyes, unmoving. Unblinking.
She lathered her arms next, fingers slow, methodical — like touching herself was just part of survival. Not pleasure. Not indulgence. But that would change. Soon.
He'd make her love the way his hands replaced her own.
She reached for the towel, wrapping it lazily around her chest, too high, too rushed. She didn't know he liked it lower — just under the breasts, where the swell peeked out at the corners like a secret.
She didn't know how he imagined peeling it from her while she begged him not to stop.
She wiped the mirror lazily. He stepped back just enough to keep out of sight, breathing slow.
In the reflection, she stared at herself, expression unreadable. He loved that about her — even alone, she wore masks. But he saw her. Always had.
She pressed a hand to her collarbone. A nervous tic.
He wondered if she felt it — the hum beneath her skin. The air shifting around her. If her body was beginning to recognize what her mind still denied: she was being prepared. Tamed. Claimed.
Not kidnapped.
Chosen.
She turned suddenly, and for one split second he thought she'd seen him.
But no.
She bent to grab something from the floor. Her towel slipped.
He saw the full curve of her backside. Tight. Smooth. Marked with faint stretch lines like silver etched into flesh. Perfection. A body that had never been worshiped the way it deserved.
She stood again, oblivious.
He stepped back.
Slipped into the hallway without a sound.
There would be time.
Plenty of time.
Because she was almost ready to stop locking the door altogether.
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