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“Or what?”
“You don’t want to know the answer to that.” He shoves a piece of avocado in my mouth, shutting down my protest. “And I’m not forcing you. If I did, you wouldn’t have a choice, but you do.”
I swallow the piece, commemorating its taste to memory. Who knows if he’ll take this small luxury away? Jonathan enforces the most sadistic type of cruelty. He makes you get used to things, then snatches them away as if they never existed. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep better at night?”
“I’m well aware of who and what I am. I don’t have to delude myself, Aurora. You do.”
“W-what?”
“You’ve been squirming and rubbing your thighs since I sat beside you. It doesn’t matter how much you tell yourself you don’t want me or you don’t want to get out of this situation. You and I both know your body doesn’t lie.”
“That is not true.” I’m thankful my voice doesn’t betray me.
Jonathan tilts his head, and I expect him to try and prove me wrong like he always does.
Pushing my buttons and cementing his supremacy is one of his control-freak methods that he doesn’t hesitate to use.
So I’m surprised when he stands. “Follow me.”
“To where?”
“Do I need to throw you over my shoulder again?”
I jerk up, not wanting to feel whatever the hell I did when he spanked my arse earlier.
He steps into the bathroom, and I stop at the threshold.
“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asks in a clipped voice, his nostrils flaring.
“Why are we here?”
He reaches into the cabinet and retrieves another first aid kit. Now that I think about it, he seems to have those everywhere. Almost like he’s expecting to injure himself in every room he walks in. Which is weird, considering that Jonathan is far from being the clumsy type.
He retrieves something from the box and closes it. “You need to shower.”
“I can do that on my own.”
“Not with your injuries.”
Before I can protest, he appears in front of me and wraps what seems like a plastic waterproof bandage around both my palms.
He then kneels and I’m momentarily stunned by the fact that Jonathan is willingly kneeling at my feet. It’s a sight I never thought I’d witness in my lifetime.
His fingers strap a similar plastic thingie around my knee. I resist the urge to close my eyes as his skin lingers on mine for a second too long.
Then he runs the water in the bath, and I remain there, torn between escaping back to the room and having him chase me — and inevitably ruining whatever gentle side he’s showing — and staying there.
He pours the bath product, the apple-scented one, and the smell fills the bathroom’s space.
When he’s satisfied with the temperature, he lets the water run. He faces me as he removes his jacket and tie, hangs them on the towel hanger, and rolls the sleeves of his shirt to above his elbows.
He’s barely showing any skin, but watching him revealing his arms is like a porn show all on its own. The only reason I don’t look away is because I refuse to lose my ground.
Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
“Remove the nightgown.”
I lift my chin up and don’t comply. If I follow his order, it’ll feel like I’m agreeing to whatever madness he’s planning.
