When I turn the knobs in the shower, cold water blasts out from the six jets on the side and pours down from overhead.
The shock draws a gasp from me. Good. That’s exactly what I crave.
Bracing my hands against the wall, I lean forward. Water pounds down on my shoulders and back and sprays across my ribs before trickling down my stomach.
The stream parts like the Red Sea against my raging erection. I lean forward again, directing the water where I need.
Maybe the cold will help me kill these unwanted feelings.
The frigid water does nothing but heighten my awareness, and my cock is still hard and aching.
I’m here to take Nika hostage, not fuck her into oblivion. I should be planning how to extract information, honing the story I’ll tell Roman if I kill her. She caused Sasha’s death. She manipulated and attacked the family. She’s the enemy.
So why does the thought of ending this woman no longer hold appeal?
The primitive region of my brain can only register that she was on top of me, warm and alive and looking at me like I was the answer instead of the problem.
A soft, sharp intake of breath startles me.
Tensing, I crane my head and realize that the door bounced wide open.
Water runs into my eyes, blurring my vision, but I can see her clearly enough.
Nika’s hands grip the slats of her headboard, her back arched, her legs spread. She has a direct line of sight into the bathroom.
But desire doesn’t shine in her eyes.
Pity does.
She’s noticed my scars. Her eyes rove over me, cataloguing every mark.
Hot, all-consuming rage floods through me.
I know what she sees.
Anyone would recognize the numerous faint, tiny burns that dot my ribs, shoulders, and lower back. Everyone knows what they are. Only one thing could make marks like this.
Lit cigarettes pressed against the skin until it bubbles and chars. My father’s favorite method of discipline.
I’ve also got jagged lines across my back from the belt. The imprints of the buckle. Above that, puckered tissue on my shoulder blade from a knife. The too-smooth patch on my clavicle where the grafts never quite matched the original skin.
My scars show the timeline of my life. From childhood abuse, to fights, to torture, gunshots, and knife wounds. Even a few bite marks, but those aren’t so easy to make out now.
Nika squints and tilts her head, and I can tell she’s trying to figure out what caused a few of them. Even from this distance, I notice the way her eyes glisten.
I’m not some victim to be pitied and mourned.
I’m the monster. The thing that breaks people. A finely honed weapon Roman points at problems until they disappear.
I’m not the victim.
I’m the consequence.
I turn the water off and snatch up a towel and my dirty clothes, stalking out of the bathroom with fury burning in my veins. Nika opens her mouth but remains silent. I have nothing to say and nothing I want to hear from her.
In the living room, I throw a few logs on the dying fire—this is the last stack of dry wood from the garage—and quickly change into clothes from my bag.
But my restlessness remains. Despite the shirt covering my scars, her eyes linger.
