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I couldn’t pull away or cover myself when his gaze raked over me, but when he reached into his pocket and produced a key that he used to unbind my wrists, all I felt was grateful.
“Really need to get you washed.”
He twisted the lid off the bottle, and I swallowed in anticipation. But then he brought the bottle to his lips and took a long sip, emptying half of it. I wanted to cry. I may have even, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Thirsty?” he asked.
I blinked.
“I like you like this, you know? You’re kind of sweet when you’re not talking.”
Then he raised my head and held it as he brought the water to my lips and gave me two small sips before setting the bottle aside and standing.
“All right.”
He tugged his shirt off. It looked strange, his chest bare but him wearing that mask covering his face. In the dimly lit room, I saw he had a tattoo on part of his chest and down one arm. I couldn’t make out the shape, though. It was just shadow.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I barely had a chance to look at him before he hauled me up and carried me into the bathroom. My face bobbed against his muscular chest as he carried me, the skin soft, his scent clean, enticing even—or it would be if I wasn’t being held against my will. There was something else too. The scent was almost familiar. Was it an aftershave someone I knew wore? I couldn’t place it.
“This is probably going to be a little cold at first.”
I gasped when he set me into the freezing tub, but my head lolled to the side, and I lay there, shivering, unable to move. He pulled up a chair from the corner and sat. I watched his eyes as he took me in, traveling over the length of me. I tried to cover myself, managing to place a hand over my mound—or close enough to it I could pretend I shielded myself.
“Now, now.”
He turned on the taps. I tried to pull back at the rush of icy water that gurgled out. It sounded like no one had bathed here in a very long time.
“None of that,” he finished, pushing my hand away. “We’re going to get very intimate, you and I.”
I groaned and half turned on my side. I watched as his gaze again fell on the scab at my hip where Victor had branded me.
The water warmed, and he closed the drain to let the tub fill up. He then picked up a washcloth and a bar of soap that sat on the edge of the tub.
I made some sound of rebellion.
“It’s clean,” he said, holding up the square of cloth. “Relatively.”
I must have made a face because he laughed outright.
“Just kidding. Christ, lighten up, princess.”
Princess. Victor had called me that a few times. He’d picked it up from Mateo. But the way he said it made my skin crawl.
“Stop,” I said, the word coming out slurred.
“Look at you, got your voice back.”
He lathered up the washcloth and started to rub me down. I had to admit the water filling the tub felt good. Warm, almost hot. It was so cold in the other room. Although it made me hiss when it reached the tender wound on my hip.
He raised each arm and scrubbed each finger, not leaving even a tiny square inch of skin untouched, paying special attention to my breasts until my nipples hardened.
“Pretty,” he said.
I tried to slap away the cloth but he took my hand and shook his head as if he were chastising a child.
“Be a good girl, and I won’t add on to the punishment you’ve already got coming for biting me.”
Goose bumps covered me at his words, and I did as he said. I lay still while he cleaned me, his touch gentler than I expected, especially around the scabby, tender spot at my hip, as if he were taking care of it. Maybe he wanted to be sure he’d be able to read whatever it was.
My captor pushed my legs apart then, and, with his eyes on mine, dragged the soapy cloth between them.
I protested by closing my legs and pushing his hand away, realizing as I did so that I was regaining mobility a little at a time. But it wasn’t nearly enough to make any difference when all he did was “tsk” at my efforts. This time, he held one knee wide, wider than he’d spread me before, and cleaned between my legs. My face heated—given he’d turned on the lights in here, I could see through the mesh covering his eyes—and I swear he smiled behind his mask. I hated him for it, hated him for his tender invasion, for the natural response of my body as he rubbed that very delicate spot over and over again, as if wanting to draw that very thing from me.
