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“What’s this?” I ask.
She pulls on my hold. “It’s nothing.”
I lift her wrist for closer inspection. The skin is chaffed. A raw riff marks her flesh. It must hurt like a bitch. I’m angry with her for injuring herself and livid with Zane all over again for allowing it.
“It’s not nothing.”
She finally keeps still, succumbing to my examination.
I brush a thumb above the aggravated line. “Why did you struggle?”
She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but the gesture shows the opposite of what it’s supposed to mean. There’s more than what she’s admitting.
“Lina.”
“I get claustrophobic.”
“You weren’t closed in a small space.”
“Being constrained does the same.”
I rub my thumb over her skin. Left. Right. Left. “Will you jump through a window or run away if I don’t cuff you to the bed?”
The ice melts in her eyes, and a bit of fire kicks in. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
I can’t help the smile that creeps over my face. “Then I guess you’ll just have overcome your fear of being constrained.”
This round is mine, and she doesn’t lose gracefully. She yanks on my hold again. “Let go.”
“Get your ass into the bathroom.” I all but shove her ahead of me.
At the sink, I wash her skin before drenching it with disinfectant and applying a bandage from my medical supplies. She sucks in a breath whenever my fingers make contact with the wound, but she doesn’t complain.
“Better?” I ask when I’m done, planting a kiss on the bandage.
She doesn’t thank me, not that she should. It’s my fault she got injured, another mistake that happened on my watch.
“Can I have my shower, now?”
Her voice is like a sharpened knife, and fuck me if I don’t deserve it.
“It’s early.” I resist the urge to smooth down her hair. It’s just another excuse to touch her. “You can go back to bed.”
“I’m awake now.”
Hell, so am I. We have issues to deal with, but they can wait. My body is still pumping adrenaline from the shock, anger, and a gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with food. I need that run more than ever.
“Go ahead. I’ll have my shower after my run.”
She’s not quick enough to hide her relief, or maybe she doesn’t care that I see it. I make her suffer a bit longer by brushing my teeth. Noticing her cosmetics are still packed in the bag as if she wants to be ready to run at any given moment, I remove every item and stack them meticulously in the cabinet and on the vanity, where they belong. The point I’m making comes through clearly. All the while, she watches me like a cornered animal. All the while, I think about her naked pussy under that nightdress. When I can’t take it any longer, I give her privacy. Pulling on my tracksuit pants and T-shirt in the dressing room, I try not to think about the only thing I can think about, how naked she is in my shower without her nightdress.
Lina
Damian left the bathroom door ajar. I can’t bring myself to close it, not without freaking out, but when he doesn’t come back for several seconds, I dare get into the shower. I’m not sure how I feel about him coming on my underwear while I was wearing it. What am I thinking? I’m not sure about him coming on my underwear, period. Yet, when I conjure the mental image of Damian stroking his erection, I don’t feel the condemnation I should, not even with my underwear in the picture. Not even with me in the picture. I get wet. I imagine myself watching, and I get wetter. It’s wrong, but I’m slick, and I’ve never felt like this before. I’m swollen and aching, and when my hand travels through the soapsuds on my belly down between my legs, it’s not because I’m bored or lonely. It’s because I’m turned on. Incredibly so. Enough to chase my release in Damian’s shower with the door ajar and my ruined panties in the trashcan. No washing can save them. Not when the thought of what soiled those panties makes me come so hard my thighs quiver.
I got the bandage wet. Now that I know where Damian keeps them, I help myself to a dry one. I don’t meet my eyes in the mirror while I’m dressing, but I do look at the scars. I count them out of habit. My body is mutilated, nothing short of belonging in a Frankenstein movie, and it hurts to look, but also helps to ground me. It kills the post-orgasm buzz. My guilt vanishes.
On my way to the kitchen, I run into Zane on the stairs. He’s dressed in tight shorts and a headband with an exercise towel thrown over his shoulder. Russell is at the door, within sight and earshot. Zane’s gaze slips to the bandage on my wrist, but he says nothing. His warning is a silent one as he shoulders me in the passing.
