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Her feet are bare. Her soles are badly cut up. If I bandage them, she’ll be able to bear comfortable shoes like sneakers. High heels will have to wait for a while.
I walk over. She doesn’t turn, but her back goes stiff.
Taking the remote from the nightstand, I show her the command I press. “The sun will wake you up early if you don’t close the blinds.”
She doesn’t react.
“Food and drinks are free,” I continue.
That gets her attention. She shoots me a killer look.
I grin. I’m learning what her buttons are and how to push them. “So is access to the house and garden. You can move around freely, but don’t test my limits. You’ll find I don’t have any.”
That wasn’t the plan. It’s wiser to keep her locked up for a while. Maybe it’s the guilt. Calling her a whore was wrong. My mother didn’t raise me as a sexist. Evie gets reactions out of me not even Mateo at his most irritating does.
Heading back toward my room, I say, “Come.”
I don’t check if she follows. Disobedience comes with a price. It’s a lesson I don’t mind teaching. Her bare feet slap the tiles behind me.
Back in my own domain, I take a chair by the coffee table and spread my legs. Pointing at the space between them, I say, “Here.”
She stops by the foot end of the bed. “Why?”
“No questions, Evie.”
She clenches her jaw but crosses the distance and stops between my legs.
“That’s better,” I croon, knowing I’ll push another button.
On cue, a green fire ignites in her eyes.
Gripping the elastic of the yoga pants, I carefully move it down her injured hip. She catches my wrist, but I gently swat away her hand. She doesn’t protest further as I put ointment on the wound before sticking a bandage over the stitches. When I fill a hypodermic needle from the vial, her gaze flares.
“Tetanus,” I say.
I tear open a packet of disinfectant swatches with my teeth and swipe one over the deltoid muscle of her upper arm. I try to be gentle, but she flinches when I insert the needle. When it’s done, I press a cotton swab on the spot where I punctured her skin and tell her, “Hold that,” while I get a band aid that I stick over the cotton. Then I open the box of antibiotics, push two pills from the casing, and hand them to her with a bottle of water.
She drinks them obediently, not uttering a chirp.
I dismiss her with a swat on the backside. “Go back to bed.” On second thought, I grab her wrist. “My bed.”
Her cheeks lose their color. “Why?”
“I told you I won’t take what you don’t give freely.” I shrug like it’s not important. “It’s up to you how quickly you go home.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“You are. Get your ass on my bed.”
She walks to the bed with a stubborn expression. I go over, stopping short of her, but she doesn’t sit down. I give her shoulder a soft shove. When her knees fold and she plops down on the edge, I instruct, “Stay.”
I get the ointment and bandages and take care of her feet. With the task done, I wash my hands in the bathroom and pull off my T-shirt. For her sake, I keep on the sweatpants.
She’s under the covers with her eyes closed when I return to the bedroom. Knowing it’s a mistake, I get into bed next to her and flick off the light.
“You know I’m going to kill you when you fall asleep,” she says into the darkness.
A smile splits my face. “You’re funny. I like a woman who knows how to make me laugh.”
She snorts.
I lash out, pushing up on one elbow and curling my fingers around her throat. She utters a shriek.
“Try and see what happens. I’m a light sleeper, sweetheart.”
When I remove my hand, she remains stiffly on her side.
I wasn’t lying. I always sleep with one eye open. There are times I swear I’m permanently tired. I can’t rest, not until this thing with Warren is resolved.
It’s close to midnight, but I don’t settle. Neither does she. She doesn’t toss or turn, but her breathing doesn’t even out. It’s almost four when she gets up and slips from my room. I let her. It’s the only way either of us will catch some shuteye.
Finally, I drift into a semi-conscious sleep that allows my body to rest. At six, I’m up.
After a quick shower, I dress in jeans and a sweater. When I exit my room, Evie stands on the stairs, wearing a T-shirt and leggings. No socks or shoes. She’s studying the family portrait on the wall.
My hackles rise. She has no business looking at the memories of my family.
I climb down to her level. The carpet runner cushions my steps, but she turns when I stop behind her.
