Page 16 of Ruined

It doesn't mean anything.

I turn off the water with more force than necessary and step out, wrapping one of those ridiculously soft towels around my body. My reflection in the mirror looks different somehow. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes too bright.

"This is insanity," I whisper to my reflection. "Get it together."

I dry off quickly and eye the clothes Noah left for me. A simple black T-shirt that will hang to my knees and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring. Nothing revealing or suggestive. Nothing to indicate he's thinking about me the way I've been thinking about him.

Which is good. Because I'm not thinking about him. Not like that.

I pull on the clothes, which smell like him—cedar and something spicy—and take a deep breath. Time to face my captor with a clear head and absolutely no inappropriate thoughts.

I step out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair, and nearly collide with Noah's chest. My heart leaps into my throat.

"Jesus!" I stumble backward, clutching the doorframe. "Were you just standing there the whole time?"

Noah doesn't move, doesn't even blink. His eyes travel down my body—from my damp hair to my face, lingering on my lips, then continuing down to where his oversized shirt hangs off my frame. The sweatpants sit low on my hips despite the drawstring being pulled tight.

His gaze is like a physical touch. Hot. Possessive. Hungry.

My breath catches. If this were any other situation—if he weren't essentially my kidnapper, if we'd met at a bar or after one of my concerts—that look would have led to clothes being torn off, bodies pressed against walls.

"I need to make sure you don't do anything stupid," he says, voice lower and rougher than before.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how the shirt clings to my still-damp skin. "Like what? Escape through the bathroom window thirty floors up?"

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "You'd be surprised what people try when they're desperate."

"I'm not desperate." The lie comes easily. "I'm angry."

Noah steps closer. I refuse to back away, even though every instinct screams at me to put distance between us. His scent envelops me—the same cedar and spice from his clothes, but stronger, mixed with something distinctly male.

"You should be scared," he says.

"Is that what you want? For me to be scared of you?"

His eyes darken. "It would be smarter than whatever you're feeling right now."

Heat floods my cheeks.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, aiming for cool indifference but landing somewhere closer to breathless confusion.

Noah's lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "Yes, you do."

He reaches out, and for one wild moment I think he's going to touch me. Instead he grabs a strand of my wet hair between his fingers, rubs it gently, then lets it fall.

"Get some sleep, Evelyn. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

I swallow hard, fighting the inexplicable disappointment that washes over me. "What happens tomorrow?"

"We figure out how to keep you alive."

I watch her cross to the bed where her violin case still lies, shoulders tensing with each step. The moonlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across thehardwood floors. Her fingers grip the violin case like it might save her from drowning.

She gazes around the room, taking in the king-size bed with its dark gray sheets, the minimalist furniture, the absence of personal items. Nothing here tells a story about me—exactly as I prefer it.

Evelyn turns to me, her wet hair framing her face. "Are the sheets clean?"

The question catches me off guard and a laugh escapes before I can stop it. Not the cold, calculated laugh I use to intimidate, but something genuine that surprises even me.

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