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Tapping my chin, I appear to be in mock thought when I reply, “Because see-through isn’t really my color.”
His jaw clenches.
I’m expecting him to scold me, but he surprises me when he takes a deep breath and then permits us into his bedroom. I go in first, shielding Ingrid because I don’t want him to take my insolence out on her.
This room is as obnoxious as Oscar. The domed ceiling has an alcove cut in the center, and a large chandelier hangs from the middle. The ivory furnishings set off the gold color scheme, and the large plush headboard on the king-size bed looks like something fit for royalty.
If the room didn’t belong to a psychopath, I would say it was quite beautiful, but where a wall has been cut, replaced with a blue and gold velvet stage curtain, all beauty has long gone. Without a doubt something sinister lurks behind that curtain.
Oscar notices me eyeing it. “Do you like it?”
This man is a narcissistic asshole. “No, I do not like it,” I reply blankly. “Why am I here?”
I am done with pretenses and games. I just want to know what’s next.
Oscar’s patience is wearing thin, but he soon composes himself. “No foreplay then?”
“You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” I taunt, unable to hold back.
In response, he laughs. It has the hair on my arms standing on end. “Have it your way then.”
I don’t know what that means until the curtains part, and my nightmare begins.
Saint is flanked by two men who drag him into the room. His hands are handcuffed behind him. Even though he is stumbling, thanks to the drugs forced into his system, he still struggles against them.
I’m instantly hit with the smell of coconuts, the same fragrance I smelled when down in the basement. He’s once again slick with oil, and I can’t help but compare his golden skin to that of a basted turkey on Thanksgiving.
Why is Oscar preparing him this way?
His head is downcast, his face shielded by his damp hair, so he doesn’t seem to notice me here. But even if he did, after our last encounter, would he want to see me?
The men hold him tightly, stopping a few feet away.
“I have tried, to no avail, to get him to like me, but he just won’t submit,” Oscar says in a huff before adding, “like you.” He peers down at my clothes, curling his lip.
It seems Saint suddenly realizes he’s not alone. He slowly lifts his chin, gauging his surroundings. His hair is swept across his eyes, but when they widen, and he blinks once, as if attempting to focus, I know he’s seen me.
I want to go to him, but the last time I did that, I seemed to make things worse. So I stand tall, unbending.
Oscar walks toward me, circling me and coming to rest at my back. He runs his hands up and down my arms while I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting the sharp metallic tang of blood. “I think I know why that is. Touch him.”
“Excuse me?” I gasp, recoiling from his lips that are way too close to my ear.
“You heard me. It’s not my touch he craves. It’s yours.” But there’s a catch. There always is. “What’s the matter? You don’t want to touch him? Earlier, you couldn’t seem to stop.”
Saint sways on his feet, but we never break eye contact. He may be dancing with delirium, but he’s still semi coherent. He parts his lips, as if attempting to speak, but his mouth hangs open uselessly. It seems he’s not in control of his muscles.
This sight is my undoing.
I shrug Oscar away, walking slowly toward Saint. His eyes widen as if he’s begging me to stay away. But I can’t. However, I use this opportunity to stumble, breaking my fall by holding the footboard. The move was done on purpose because I have just planted bug number four.
Once I regain my footing, I continue walking toward Saint. The closer I get to him, the harder he fights against his captors to get away from me. I can’t help but feel dejected. Regardless, once I’m a few feet away, I stop and curl my hands into fists.
I want nothing more than to touch him, to take away his pain, but it’s evident he’d rather I not. When we first met, he shied away from being touched, but we jumped that hurdle, as well as many others. Now, though, this seems so much worse.
“Go on then,” Oscar coaxes, thoroughly enjoying the show.
Inhaling, I beg he give me a sign that this is okay. That we will get through this. But when he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his cheek, I know it never will be ever again. Even though he may have given up, I haven’t, and I never will.
