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She stares at me with wide eyes for a moment, opens her mouth, closes it again, and then shakes her head and looks away. “This was a mistake. I know having been drunk wasn’t an excuse, but it won’t happen again.”
I laugh. “There are so many wrongs in those two sentences. This wasn’t a mistake. I’ll fuck you drunk or sober because I’m not a gentleman or a good enough man to care about morally gray areas. And most importantly, it will happen again. So I’ll decide for you. Seeing that the pill will fuck with your hormones, condoms it’ll be.” I fix her with a look. “Just know one thing. This is the last time we’re killing something we could’ve created. The fact that I’m even doing this should tell you how much I fucking care about your wishes.”
Leaving her with that statement, I slam the door behind me. Everything she said made sense, but I don’t like how easily she thinks she can walk away from this, how little she wants my baby in her belly. Because I sure as hell don’t feel the same. Exactly the opposite, in fact. I’d love to plant my seed inside her and see her grow big with my child. I’d love to see my baby in her arms and my ring on her finger, and I can’t give a damn in which order that happens.
But she’s only eighteen. She’s only been legal since a few hours, and I’ve already taken my due. I’ve already claimed everything I’ve waited two long years for.
The hotel lobby is quiet this early. It reminds me of the morning I left to kidnap that junior accountant, the one who jumped out of the window.
I get into my car and easily locate the hyper pharmacy Sabella mentioned. After buying an emergency contraceptive pill and several boxes of condoms as well as painkillers and ointments for burn wounds, I drive back to the hotel.
Sabella is waiting obediently naked in bed. The sight somewhat calms my turbulent thoughts. Her submission pacifies some of my anger. I make her drink another glass of water with two painkillers and the morning-after pill, and then I strip and wash both of us in the shower, a task I already love. I enjoy taking care of her.
When I’ve patted her dry, I mix a few drops of lavender oil in aloe vera jelly and apply the homemade ointment on her mark. The lavender has antibacterial properties, and the aloe vera soothes burns. The scar will look pretty when the angry red has faded and only the embossed lines are left.
She lets me administer the treatment, for once saying nothing. I blow a kiss over the wound and cover it with a non-stick bandage.
Cupping her cheek, I ask, “Better?”
She turns her face to the side, away from my touch. I let her escape. I’ve put her through a lot in a few short hours.
While we’re dressing, I order room service. I pull on my discarded clothes with clean underwear while she shimmies into skinny jeans and a light summer sweater. She leaves the button of the jeans undone, hiding it under the sweater.
A waiter knocks on the door just as she’s dried her hair. When I answer the door, he wheels a trolley into the room. He lifts the silver dome covers to reveal scrambled eggs, bacon, and baked beans on toast.
I tip him and lock the door when he’s gone.
“Come here,” I say, dragging a chair closer.
She walks over without arguing.
I seat her in front of the trolley and spread a napkin over her lap. Unable to resist, I kiss the top of her head. She smells like the hotel shampoo, a scent that reminds me of luxury spas. Using the bench as a seat, I sit down opposite her. After serving her a big helping of everything, I pour coffee and add one sugar and milk like she prefers. I watch her from under my lashes as I help myself to the food. She must be hungry, hungover, or both, because she eats everything on her plate and takes a portion of fruit salad and yoghurt.
By the time we’re done eating, the color is back on her cheeks.
“Don’t worry about your parents,” I say, finishing my coffee. “I’ll handle them.”
She pushes back the chair and jumps to her feet. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not going to be your dirty little secret, Sabella.” At the flare of her eyes, I add, “They’ll be more understanding than what you think.”
“No,” she says quickly. “They don’t have to know. Nobody does.”
I get up. “Why? Are you’re worried about what your family will think because you had sex or because you had sex with me?”
“Both,” she admits with a bluntness I didn’t expect.
I gnash my teeth. The insult stings, provoking cruel humor. “I’m afraid your virginity is non-returnable, so you’ll just have to bite the bullet.”
