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Drop my underwear.
The first sensation I feel when my toe gets into the water is complete numbness dipped in a sharp burn. But as more of my leg slides into the tub, the feeling becomes increasingly unbearable, like a thousand knives stabbing me at once. I scream in pain and turn to step out, but then I feel the utility knife pressing to my spine. The blade digs into my skin. I instinctively send my palm to the injury my father had left in my stomach.
God, make it stop.
“All the way in, baby. You’re not a whore anymore. I need you clean and pure.”
I lower myself in, slowly, but Murray isn’t having that. Both hands land on my shoulders, and he shoves me down so I’m fully submerged to my chest. The cold takes my breath away. I literally cannot breathe, cannot scream, cannot move. My mouth opens in a silent scream. Murray grabs the bar of soap and meticulously lathers me up, while I sit here in total shock from the cold.
“You know,” he muses. “Boiling water would’ve been more effective, but I have plans for you later, and I’d prefer it if you were conscious for them. Personally, I think this way is more fun. But that all depends on you.”
When I feel the coarse material hit my skin, I flinch away.
“Ah ah ah,” he scolds. “I need to wash you.”
Murray spends
an insane amount of time scrubbing my skin raw. I’m starting to shake violently, my teeth chattering audibly. I’ve heard of athletes taking ice baths willingly, but I don’t think you’re supposed to sit in it for more than a few minutes at a time. I sit up as he drags the wiry pad along my back. This is good. I need to keep as much of my body out of the water as possible. I clench my fists at the pain, but I don’t cry out. I don’t have the energy for anything other than breathing. I just need to hang on a little while longer. Carter will come for me, right?
“Time to wash this pretty red hair,” Murray teases.
All hope is shattered as he snatches my hair in a fist and pulls me backward. I open my mouth to scream, but suddenly, I’m under water, and my lungs are filled with it. Panic takes over as I thrash around, trying to come up for air, but he holds me under. My fight is fading fast. I was already feeling weak before I went under, and I can’t hold on for much longer. My lungs feel as if they’re being crushed, and my vision goes black around the edges.
I hear commotion above me, but everything is muffled, and I’m fading.
I’m stepping into the darkness. And I let it take me.
“No!”
Someone yanks me by my hair brutally. I gasp, my lungs starved for air. My eyes are open, but it takes me a few seconds to adjust. Carter is here, with me, inside the tub. Still in his jeans, fully clothed, with his coat, his sweaty forehead shining as he picks me up and jerks me into his body. I cry. I cry even without realizing that I’m crying. My fists are pounding his chest. It’s not his fault, but in my mind, it is.
He should have never left me.
He should have been there.
“Quinn, look at me,” he keeps repeating. But I don’t. I just cry and throw my useless fists at him. Murray is on the floor, covered in blood. I see him from my peripheral, but it doesn’t move me either way. I’m neither happy nor sad.
“I hate you. I hate that I need you. I hate that you weren’t there.”
The words just rush out of my mind foolishly. My skin is a blueish hue, and my teeth chatter. He ignores my tantrum and reaches to the showerhead above my head, yanking the handle. Warm water cascades over our bodies, but I’m still trembling. I can’t seem to get warm, to stop shaking. Carter leans down and plucks out the stopper. I roar out in pain, the cold and the hot too much to take, and it feels like a thousand tiny needles are pricking me.
My fists turn into desperate, grabby hands, seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking distraction.
Before I know it, my hands are on his jaw, then his ass, grabbing through his jeans, and his lips are slamming into mine desperately.
There’s a dead man underneath us, I’ve just nearly drowned, and now we’re going to fuck. Dysfunctional and desperate, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.
“I fucking hate you,” I repeat, my lips ghosting his. He doesn’t answer me. Not with his words, anyway. Two men. Two men he’s killed for me. Two men who wronged me. I’d suffered under their hands, and they had suffered under his.
An eye for an eye, they say.
His hands are on the small of my back, my breasts, everywhere. I’m climbing and clawing, trying to get more of his warmth. Somehow, he lifts me up so my legs are wrapped around his waist and lowers us both down to the emptying tub. The water pounds down on us as Carter lowers his jeans.
He thrusts hard, almost manically, and my body—my traitorous body—is seeking his touch like it’s the very air I breathe. We make unforgiving love, and now I’m suffocating on Carter and the steam, drowning for an entirely different reason.
I moan, but he swallows my voice with his mouth.
“That’s it, baby. Take it, baby.”
