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At his mercy.
At his whims.
He keeps me in the tub just long enough to douse me thoroughly in the places his rag won’t reach. My hair. Between my legs. My once-bandaged leg. Water stings as it sweeps against my injuries, but when my eyes start to water, he carries me from the tub and returns me to the bench.
He towels me off in silence, and I’m forced to bear his resentment. It’s only when he leaves the room and returns with a garment dangling between his fingers that I lose my resolve. I sigh.
“Lift your arms,” he tells me, bringing the nightgown close.
A creation formed of light-pink silk, it looks like something Briar would wear—as a joke. Something too frilly even for Robert’s taste. A mocking caricature of what a living doll might be adorned with: white lace and pink ribbons.
Once I’m dressed, Mischa returns me to the large, white room. The sheets on the bed have been changed, the air scented. Every seemingly kind gesture only unnerves me more. Especially one small detail that catches my eye as I’m lowered to the mattress: He leaves space beside me. The bed is large enough for him to do so, with room to spare, but an extra set of pillows have been placed beside mine. The tray that I assume is for my meals has been moved from its position near the wall toward the opposite end of the room, closer to me.
Leaving the remaining half as the dominion of one person.
He doesn’t say it out loud, not yet. He yanks the covers over me and exits the room without hinting at his true motives.
But Mischa Stepanov is quickly becoming as familiar to me as a damaged, twisted book I have no choice but to study. He’ll be back.
Sooner or later, he’ll be back.
