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What is wrong with me?
While I’m dithering, Victor pats the space on the bed next to him. “You may join me again.”
I’m speechless at the uttergallof him. “What makes you think I want to?” I snap—and regret it instantly. I take a few steps away from the bed, although the bathroom doesn’t feel any safer.
Victor finally looks up from his tablet, a small, amused smirk on his lips. “Don’t you?”
Yes. And that’s the problem. I shouldn’t want to. But all I want to do is curl back up and rest without being alone. Why it’s so important that I’m around someone, I don’t know. I guess the time in that trunk has messed with my head even more than I thought.
“No,” I lie.
I instantly regret it. What if he puts me back in that suite alone? Or worse, what if he puts me back in that cold basement room?
He stares at me for a few seconds, then slowly gets out of bed. He’s wearing only a long pair of pajama pants. I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him wearing something casual, and it almost makes him seem less intimidating.Almost.
I’m wary as he walks to the foot of the bed—and stops right next to the trunk. My heart starts to race faster, and I unconsciously shake my head.
“Are you sure you want to make this hard on yourself, Lucia?” Victor asks. He extends a hand in my direction, and I have no clue what that means. Beckoning me to join him in bed again? Or a trick so he can throw me back into confinement?
“No,” I say again, this time in a ragged whisper. I don’t. I don’t want to make anything hard for myself, and I don’t want to end up in that chest again. I don’t think I can handle it, not when I feel like every nerve ending is especially sensitive in the wake of my time in there.
“Then come here,” Victor orders calmly. No other explanation, no way of knowing what the fuck he plans to do.
I swallow hard then take a step toward him. Then another. And another, until I’m within reach of his hand. I look up, meeting his eyes, then slowly thread my fingers through his.
“Good girl,” Victor says, lifting my hand up to kiss the back of it. I hate how relieved I am to hear the praise. “Now follow.”
He takes me to the small nook before the ensuite. If this were a woman’s room, I’d call it a vanity, but I have a hard time imagining Victor spending a lot of time primping. He turns the chair to the side, away from the mirror, and pulls a small footstool out from underneath it.
“Sit here,” he says, pointing at the footstool. I carefully lower myself onto it, careful to keep the towel wrapped around my body. Until Victor orders me to drop it, I’m going to cling to this small modicum of modesty.
I tense when Victor sits down behind me, but when I try to turn to face him, he puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. That doesn’t help me relax, but at this point, nothing would.
Victor opens a drawer to pull something out—a hairbrush, which he uses to gently begin brushing my damp hair.
I didn’t expect him to be so soft with me, and I don’t relax even as he carefully works at the ends of my hair before slowly working his way up. He has a deft hand, which is something I wouldn’t have expected. I have a hard time thinking about him brushing a woman’s hair. There’s nothing sweet and considerate about him, and I can’t help but think this is another one of his manipulations.
No, scratch that. Iknowit’s another one of his manipulations.
I wonder how many other women he’s done this with.
The entire time, he’s quiet, unnervingly so, and I start to fidget. I should probably be relaxing because it feels so good to be pampered, but I know there’s going to be a cost. He’s going to expect something out of me for this.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say after a long moment, as he starts to carefully brush through the tangles at the roots of my hair. I mean for my voice to be edged, accusatory, but it ends up coming out placid.
Defeated?
Victor keeps brushing my hair, the bristles sending tingles through my scalp. “What am I doing?” he asks casually, almost disinterested.
“You’re manipulating me. Trying to fuck with my head. Being nice one minute and cruel the next. But you’re not going to break me,” I say with all the confidence I can muster—which isn’t nearly as much as I wish I could summon. “I’m not going to forget you locked me in that trunk, or…” I don’t want to detail what else he’s made me do. “Anything. I’m not forgetting anything. You being nice to me sometimes isn’t going to change a damn thing.”
“Why would I want you to forget any of those things?” Victor switches to running his fingers through my hair. “Which dog do you think is more affectionate—the one that is treated well all the time, or the one that has no idea when it will be petted or kicked?”
I jerk away from him. “I’m not a fuckingdog,” I spit, turning to glare at him. “And you can’t just treat me like that. I’m not going to come to you for attention.” Hadn’t I already? “I know you’re screwing with my head, but it’s not going to work.”
Victor sighs and lays the hairbrush across one of my thighs. It’s got a very wide back, made of dark wood that contrasts sharply with my skin.
“Of course it’s going to work, Lucia. It doesn’t matter whether you know what I’m doing or not.” He taps the brush gently against my thigh. “I’ll commend you for noticing, though. Most people I deal with never realize just how much I’ve manipulated them.”
