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I nod.
“You’re right. OK,” I say quietly after a long, tense pause. I’m not ready to apologize, not to him, not after everything we’ve been through. But I can accept what he said. That he’s acting out of concern for me as a person instead of just worrying that I might not be able to perform like his little Songbird inside the glittering cage he’s created.
“OK,” he repeats after me, and it looks like he’s calmed down ever so slightly. The anger is still there, but it’s retreated somewhat, replaced with a nameless rawness in his gaze. “OK,” he says once more, a little quieter this time, and I wonder if he’s saying it to me this time or to himself.
And then, as if this has been the most normal day in the world, he suddenly holds out his hand to me and casually says, “Let’s go to bed.”
I stare at his outstretched hand, at the hard, strong shape of it, cloaked in that dull-yet-luminescent black. It’s a hand that’s hurt me and held me, possessed me and protected me. It’s choked the breath from my lungs and left its stinging imprint on my skin.
I don’t entirely trust it.
But I rise and take it anyway.
Chapter 2
Deirdre
Elio holds my hand the entire way up the stairs and into my room, and I can tell that if I make one wrong move or even stumble slightly he’ll be scooping me up into his arms again. But it feels good to walk on my own, even if my legs are wobbly.
It feels good to hold his hand too. I can’t deny it.
We walk through Elio’s room into mine. The bed draws me towards it like gravity, but despite how bone-tired I am there’s also a buzz of nervous energy in my brain and I don’t know if I can sleep right away.
“I’m going to have a bath,” I announce. Yes. That would be good. Wash the night off of me.
“Fine,” Elio replies. “But no holding your breath this time. Just a normal, relaxing bath, you got it? Put some bubbles or some other shit like that in there.”
I nod, because I’m pretty sure if I try to hold my breath for any significant period of time in my current state I’m just going to pass out. I head into the bathroom. It’s almost funny, or maybe kind of sad, how my natural impulse to reach out and close the door is entirely gone now. Just like the door itself, I suppose. I peel off my hoodie and let it drop to the floor. Bare and braless, I turn on the light, only to let out a strangled yelp when I see the huge, hulking silhouette in the mirror, standing directly behind me.
“How are you so quiet?” I gasp, spinning to face him and clapping my arms over my chest. “You’re like a hundred feet tall! You should make at least some kind of sound when you enter a room. It’s got to be against the laws of… I don’t know, physics or something!”
I’m babbling. I know it and Elio knows it. But he doesn’t try to stop me, just listens quietly.
Or maybe doesn’t listen at all, tuning me out as his gaze roams over my exposed skin. I assume it’s in a sexual way, but then I see the slight tightening of concern around his eyes, and I realize that he’s once again checking my skin for injuries.
This is only confirmed when he takes me by the shoulders and turns me around so that we’re both facing the mirror once again. He keeps one hand on my right shoulder, the other skimming between my shoulder blades, slowly tracing the line of my spine until it comes to rest on my left hip.
“All in one piece,” I murmur, my eyes on his in the mirror.
“We’ll see,” he says. He gently squeezes my hip. “Pants off.”
“Oh, come on! You know nothing happened to my legs!” I snap. Unlike the sleeve of the coat, there’s no ripped fabric or singe marks. Just a few wet spots from the snow.
“Either I check every inch of you here and now, or I do it with you laying sprawled and naked in my bed.” His tone is darkly menacing, and once again it doesn’t seem as if it’s intended to be sexual, just a simple threat. But the words go straight to my tender pussy, because that part of the night is resurging to the forefront of my mind now.
The memory of him slamming into me, claiming every part of me, telling me to come on his cock like a good fucking girl.
Which I did.
And I guess I’m still his stupid good girl, because I hook my thumbs into the waistband of the sweat pants and let them fall without further argument. Elio stands back slightly and then bends to examine my legs, his cool, leather-clad touch sparking sensations that I try and fail to ignore.
“Good,” he says. “Now those.”
There’s nothing left but my panties.
“No way,” I say quickly. “What, you think I’ve got a bullet stuck up there or something?”
“You planning to wear them in the bath?” he counters.
