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17
CHARLOTTE
Iwake from a mighty kick from Arrow. Her paw hits me on the back of a thigh, right over another bruise on the same spot.
“Ow!” I push onto my elbows and glare at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy stretching out on the double bed, effectively crowding me off the side. I stand with a sulky groan, running my hands over my face as I come back to reality. I can’t believe I fell asleep again.
I hear the shower running, and groan again. Damn it, now Gideon’s taken my spot. He’d better leave me some hot water. My lips slide into a smile. I could wait for him to finish, or I could do the planet a solid and save some water…
I slip into the motel room’s tiny bathroom, smirking at his dark silhouette. As I push the door closed behind me, already unbuttoning my jeans, a cloud of fog obscures my vision. A rush, something akin to déjà-vu but much more sinister, chases through me as my body goes slack.
Peter shoves me under the scorching hot shower water, a sickening smile on his lips as I howl in pain. Red marks leap out on my skin, my skin seconds away from blistering under the intense heat. “Please! Please!” I beg him, spinning around to claw my way out. He holds me easily, the medicine he gave me earlier making my muscles weak. “This is what happens when you don’t listen to me,” Peter sneers with a sadistic smile. “This is what happens when youfight.”
I bat away the hands trying to grasp my clothing, my eyes flying open to Fyre’s concerned face. “No!” I wail, kicking him in the shin as I try to yank open the bathroom door.
“Charlotte!” There’s frustration in his voice, a good deal of anger. “Stop, or you’ll hurt yourself!”
“Stay away from me!” I shriek, flipping onto my stomach and trying to crawl away. Fyre slips an arm around my waist, hoists me up, and sits me down on the vanity.
His hands cup my face, wiping furiously at the strands of hair sticking to my sweat-damp cheeks. “Come back to me, Charlotte. It’s Wednesday. You’re with me in a motel. You’resafe.”
My eyes dart away from his gaze. I can still feel the sting of the water on my skin, Peter’s painful grip as he holds me in place. But Fyre keeps stroking my cheeks, keeps gliding his thumbs over my cheekbones. His gentle touch grounds me, his calming words buffering the fear.
“Charlotte, come back.”
Comeback.
Slowly, the horrible flashback recedes. The phantom pain of scorching water fades. I let out a broken sob, and sag forward into Fyre’s chest as he cradles me against his body.
“I know it hurts, baby,” he murmurs into my hair as he strokes my head, “I know. I know.”
It feels like forever that I’m trapped in that exhausting moment, the tsunami of my emotions bursting out in an unstoppable torrent.
The shame, the terror, the guilt.
Ever so slowly, that flood becomes a stream, then a trickle.
My body weighs a ton, and as if he knows I don’t have the strength to move, Fyre picks me up and heads out of the bathroom.
“No,” I manage weakly. “I want to wash.”
It’s been a source of pride for me. After my time with Peter, I’d go a week, sometimes longer, without bathing. Without even changing clothes, or underwear. I didn’t see the point of trying to clean myself—it had felt as if Peter had left permanent stains on my soul.
But now, whenever we stay at a place with running water, I’ve been forcing myself to shower or bathe. Every time I do, I imagine that I’m washing away the feel of Red’s hands on me. And not just his…those other men’s too. Their lips, their bodies, their cum, their sweat. I’m sure one of Red’s friends even peed on me, because I have a particularly strong memory of the smell of urine. I’d prefer to think that I pissed myself, and they had to get rid of a mattress because of the mess.
Fyre regards me for a moment before letting out a reluctant, “Okay.” He’s got to understand how much it means to me after how insistent I was about showering the past few days. He sets me on the floor, propping me back up when I sway on my feet. Then he steps back, arms held out like he’s worried I’ll fall on my face. When he seems content that I’m able to stand, he turns to leave.
“No. Stay.” The words come out sluggish. “Help me.”
The look on his face makes all the effort worth it. He would never have offered, probably thinking he’d be overstepping. But to have me ask means I trust him, and that means more to him than anything.
It’s crazy that I know that about him…but maybe it’s not.
He gently draws my shirt over my head, and then pushes my jeans down my legs. I hold onto him for support as I lift my feet so he can tug the jeans and my underwear away. Then he rips the towel off his waist and herds me into the shower with him, turning the water on.
I let him wash me, reveling in the gentle touch of his hands on my bruised skin. The sensual way he massages my scalp, how tenderly he wipes my face. He cleans everywhere, except between my legs, and it takes me peering up at him through drowned lashes, taking hold of his wrist and guiding him, before he washes my pussy and anus.
He must feel how wet I am—not with water, but with arousal—because he pauses for a moment before gently slipping a finger inside me.
