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“What?” I say. I am not prepared to give an inch just because I like the sound of his voice.
“You will come to accept me and maybe even to love me.” He slips his hand beneath the sheets and runs his fingers up my inner thigh.
I gasp, unprepared for the way my body answers his touch. “Get off me!” I say, pulling against the chain to wriggle further out of his grasp.
“Okay,” he says with his gentle smile. “I can be patient.”
When he walks from the room, I feel bereft of company.
The only way I can tell the passing of the time is by the rays of sunlight streaming through the window. My anger and frustration quickly turn to boredom. I cannot let this be my life now. Life with the elves was utter shit, but I was never bored.
Sometime around lunchtime, delicious smells start wafting through the half-open door. My stomach is insisting that the porridge this morning is not enough. I wonder how long I can hold out if he starts forcing me to eat. I find myself looking forward to his return.
But he does not. The sun goes past its zenith, and I am still here alone. I pull ineffectually at the silver chain, but my attempt is half-hearted.
I feel my heart lift when he walks into the room carrying a steaming bowl.
“Let me see your injuries,” he says, placing the bowl down on the small table.
“What?” I reply, not comprehending.
“Your injuries. I need to clean them,” he replies.
It dawns on me that the bowl contains hot water and healing herbs. My stomach growls its revolt, and a twitch of a smile plays around his mouth at the noise.
“Oh, sure,” I say. I expose my arms, and he tenderly cleans every cut and graze.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “You could just take me and be done with it.”
“I don’t want that,” he replies. “I want you to want me, too. I have always had a fascination with humans and your ways. I never kill humans like I do orcs and elves. I always spare them.”
“So why did you not take another human as your mate?” I want to know.
“Because you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.”
His words are so sincere they make me blush.
“And now your legs,” he says.
I feel horribly exposed as the covers fall away.
“You should really stop fighting this,” he tells me as he’s cleaning my ankle. “All you are achieving is hurting yourself.”
“It’s you who put it on there. The simpler solution would be that you remove it,” I tell him.
“When you are ready to give yourself to me, then you shall be free,” he says.
He works his way up my legs, cleaning my wounds. Then ever so gently, he pushes them apart. I do not resist. What is the point? His strong warm hands move up to my crease, and I feel a shock of lightning shooting through me. My breath comes out in a ragged gasp.
“You like that,” he says, looking me in the eye. “Shall I stop?”
I want him to stop so badly. His touch is sweet torture. But my body has other ideas.
“Stop.” The word is a forced whisper, and my body screams in protest as he instantly pulls away.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” he tells me.
“Get out,” I scream, embarrassed that he has seen my weakness and longing. “Get out now!”
