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“Oh, yes, please, excuse me. I do forget you’re busy. See, I’m stuck here with absolutely nothing to fucking do except wallow in despair, so I did have time for a little chat this morning.”
The corner of his lips pinches into a small smile and, out of nowhere, he laughs. It’s discreet, barely out of his chest when he adds, “That was funny.”
“Nothing about this is funny.” Maybe I’m starting to feel his constant exasperation.
He takes a step back, running his hand through his messy blond strands. “Okay. I get your frustration.”
“Do you? I thought you couldn’t understand what I feel.”
He smiles, but it’s cold. “Don’t push me, I’m feeling kind now that I know about your dad.”
I roll my eyes. He doesn’t fucking know shit.
“See, my siblings and I were orphans. Then Mateo Bianco, yes, the same Bianco you’ve heard of, took us in. I was twelve, the twins were eight. Twelve was old enough for me to understand I had antisocial behavior issues, believe me. I already knew something was off, that’s how I can tell you it wasn’t him who made me this way. Turns out Bianco liked to take lots of kids to groom them into being his soldiers. My sister was the only unlucky one he wanted to keep to himself. So when I learned about it, I defended her. He raped me and threatened to do the same to her if we didn’t start behaving or if we tried to leave. I got everyone in check. I forced my siblings to stay so I could protect them from him, and I spent ten years planning how to take him down.”
His smile brightens. “And look. Now I own his empire, and he’s dead. So who’s the real winner here?”
Holy shit.
The man lives in complete denial.
When I don’t respond for a few minutes, he waves a hand in front of my face. “Kayla?”
“You are so fucking broken.” I don’t mean it to come out as an insult, but this is as fucked as it comes.
He sighs, dismissing me. “Now you’re being dramatic.” Sliding a hand at the back of my neck, he steers me in the direction of the bathroom. “Come on, we need to shower before I leave.”
I don’t even have the strength to fight back. I follow along, watching him turn it on and walk in.
“You’d better drop the pillow if you want to join.” My hands tighten around it, wondering if it’s smart to shower with him. I could just wait.
“Kayla,” he chuckles. “Remember when I chained you to my basement and hit you repeatedly with a crop?”
I narrow my eyes at him, pushing my words past my gritted teeth. “Yes, Nathan. I do.”
“Well, you were naked for it. So drop that pillow and join me, will you?”
Choosing to save my energy for a fight after I take a headache tablet, I drop the pillow and join him under the hot water. The heat feels heavenly against my battered body, but I hate the way I startle when he settles behind me and cups my breasts. One hand is holding a loofah bubbling with shower gel that he presses against my right nipple.
“How are they feeling?”
“Guess, asshole.”
He smiles against my neck as he skims my skin with his lips. “Where’s the compliant wife I fucked yesterday?”
The feeling of his dick hardening against my lower back sends electricity up my spine. Did I not get enough of this yesterday? My pussy feels like it needs a break, not another round. So why am I already getting wet?
One hand slides to my lower stomach, and he plays with my scar there. I close my eyes, hoping with everything I have that he doesn’t ask more questions about it.
“Tell me.” He starts washing my breast, running gentle circles against it. I try to keep my breathing under control, but it stutters when he carries on talking. “What did your dad do to you?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Of course, he wasn’t going to let this go. I don’t know why I thought talking about his past would make him retreat. If you can even call a proud speech about taking over your rapist’s empire ‘talking about your past.’
“I’ll get it out of you, little sunflower. The question is…” His hand goes lower. “Are you going to drag the bad guy out of me and make me finger you while I make you talk? Or should we both play nice and share our stories?”
Two fingers slide between my nether lips, and I choke on a breath. The word squeaks past my tight throat when I speak. “Stop.”
“Talk.”
