I turn away from my reflection and move to the shower, twisting the knob until water streams from the showerhead.
Steam begins to rise as I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. The hot water hits my skin like a thousand tiny needles.
I tilt my head back, letting the water cascade over me. I feel like it's washing away everything I've been through in the past two days. Hell, the past 18 months actually.
I know that's impossible but a girl can hope. It does feel like the first time in months I've felt clean.
Maxim's house had showers, of course, but they were always monitored. Anya would stand outside the door, listening, making sure I didn't do anything I wasn't supposed to.
Here, I'm alone.
I reach for the bar of soap on the ledge and scrub my skin, washing away the grime and the invisible stain of Maxim's hands.
I wash my hair twice, working the shampoo through the tangles, rinsing until the water runs clear.
After I rinse the conditioner out, I finish up and turn off the water. I step out and wrap a towel around myself and stand in front of the mirror again, wiping the steam away with my hand.
My reflection stares back at me, clearer now.
Still broken, but I can see part of me again.
I turn and walk back into the bedroom, pulling on the clean clothes Adrian found and left folded on the chair, a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt.
They're too big, but they're warm and they don't smell like Maxim's cologne or Moscow.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers through my damp hair, thinking.
Wait, I'm actually thinking clearly.
This is the most clear-headed I've been.
And then it hits me. My brain fog is completely gone. For the first time in eighteen months, there's no chemical blanket muffling my thoughts.
No artificial calm smoothing over the jagged edges of my emotions or numbing me to keep the rage at bay.
And the rage. It's been there the whole time, simmering beneath the surface, waiting. But now there's nothing holding it back.
It floods through me like fire, hot and uncontrollable, burning away everything else.
I grip my knees through my sweatpants as the anger roars louder, drowning out every rational thought.
Why didn't he come sooner?
The question fills my head, demanding an answer.
Eighteen months.
Eighteen fucking months.
I was there, drugged and beaten and sold, and he was where?
Living his life?
Breathing free air while I suffocated in the dark?
My hands curl into fists and the sudden urge to scream overtakes me.
I want to break something. I want to hurt him the way I've been hurt.