Page 30 of Ruined

She looks up, surprised by the question. "You're actually going shopping?"

"No. But Matteo might, if I pay him enough."

Her lips twitch again—that almost-smile I've caught glimpses of. "Poor Matteo. Kidnapping and personal shopping in the same day."

"He'll survive." I watch her write, noting how she chews slightly on her lower lip when concentrating. "Anything else?"

She hesitates, then adds something to the list. "Books. I need something to read or I'll lose my mind in here."

"What kind?"

"Anything. Everything." She shrugs. "I'm not picky."

When she finishes, she tears the page off and holds it out to me. Our fingers brush as I take it and she snatches away quickly, like I've burned her.

"I will pay you back," she repeats, her voice firm. "Every cent."

I fold the paper without looking at it and slip it into my pocket. "If that's what you need to believe."

I drop the pen on the list I've been making and glance toward the bathroom. My skin feels sticky and my hair's a tangled mess from sleeping roughly last night.

"I need to take a shower," I announce, not quite meeting Noah's eyes.

He looks up from his phone, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to ask permission, Evelyn. The bathroom's yours whenever you want it."

Something about the casual way he says my name makes my stomach flip. I hate that he affects me this way.

"Right. Because I'm just a guest here, not a prisoner." The words come out sharper than intended.

I grab the clothes he provided yesterday and march to the bathroom without another word. The hot water helps clear my head, but not enough. When I finish, I wrap myself in a towel and realize I forgot to ask for a hairbrush.

The bedroom door is closed when I return. Noah must be in the living room. Perfect.

I drop the towel, then pause. This is my chance to learn something—anything—about the man who's holding me captive. I move to his dresser first, sliding open the top drawer. Just neatly folded T-shirts, all black or gray.

The second drawer holds nothing interesting either. The third has a false bottom.

My heart races as I carefully lift the panel. Underneath lies a single photograph, worn at the edges as though it's been handled countless times.

A woman with dark hair and Noah's eyes stares back at me. She's beautiful, sitting with a violin across her lap. The resemblance is striking—this has to be his mother. Her smile is gentle, with nothing of Noah's hard edges.

I trace the edge of the photo with my fingertip. Why hide this? And why a violin? The coincidence makes my chest tighten.

"Find what you're looking for?"

I jump, nearly dropping the photograph. Noah stands in the doorway, his face a mask of controlled fury.

"I—" Words fail me as I clutch the photo. "Is this your mother?"

Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe. It's gone so quickly I can't be sure.

"Put it back." His voice is deadly quiet.

"She played violin." I don't know why I say it, why I'm prodding when his eyes have gone so dark.

Noah crosses the room in three long strides and snatches the photo from my hands. "You don't get to ask about her."

I press, even as warning bells sound in my head. "What happened to her?"

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