16
Itake my time in the shower.
I lather my hair with the expensive shampoo that smells like honey and smooth the foamy bubbles over my skin, careful over the bruises still healing plus the fresh ones Alexander so kindly gifted me after our last little tussle.
When I reach between my legs flashes of his body flexing atop of mine has my core pulsing. He had well and truly wormed his way under my skin. It was an itch I couldn’t scratch, a damn ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to remedy.
I suck in a breath as the pad of my finger rubs across my swollen bud, eyes fluttering closed as my mind conjures images of his thick body moving, his muscles flexing, the murderous glint in his eyes shining bright in the darkness.
Come for me, little bird.
My teeth bite into my bottom lip as the deep baritone of his voice rumbles through my body as if he’s just said the words in my ear. My thighs shake as an orgasm hits me hard and unexpectedly.
This is what it has come to. Sleeping with my fucking kidnapper and masturbating in the shower over him.
I have a sickness and I fear there is no cure.
The shackles may be off for now, but I am no where near free. He’s made sure of that with his goons stationed at every door, on every corner and every room. There’s no way I can get past all of them though I’m sure it could be fun to try.
I dry off using one of the thick fluffy towels in the bathroom and step up to the mirror, rubbing the condensation on the glass with my hand.
A girl I hardly recognize stares back at me.
I look the same, they’re my eyes and my lips, my freckles and wild copper hair but I don’t feel like me.
Is it odd that I feel powerful?
The bruising on my throat is a mere shadow now, the one on my temple practically gone and my skin looks healthy considering the circumstances. I haven’t seen myself in the mirror since he took me and I expected harsh shadows under my eyes, sunken skin, but I see none of that.
I dress in fresh clothes put out on the bed for me and go in search of the man himself. I ignore the men stationed throughout the large house which I now realize is a mansion, likely big enough to be a hotel should they wish to convert it.
Something tells me however, Alexander isn’t into the hospitality business.
No, the type of business Mr Silver deals is dark, and gritty, violent and bloody. He’s the man your mother warns you about, the one that looks like an angel but sins like the devil. He’ll corrupt your soul, tempt you and tease you before ripping out your heart and feeding it to the wolves.
He didn’t scare me though. Even though he should, I didn’t feel an ounce of fear when I stood head to head with him. I felt equal, even if everything between the two of us was never in my favor.
I find him in a bathroom further down the hall, one on the other side of a large master bedroom but because the door is open and the mirror inside stretches from one side to the other I can see him in the reflection.
He’s shirtless, his bronzed skin stained with dried blood the color of rust and cuts mar his back, chest and arms. There’s still a bandage wrapped around his arm where I shot him and it’s likely his leg is still wrapped but if they hurt him, he was a pro at hiding it. Even now, with the bruises and the cuts that look angry and raw, he doesn’t wince or flinch, just does his business like it’s a normal day.
And it probably is.
He’s probably been through worse more times than he can remember, and these wounds are nothing but an inconvenience.
I step onto the plush carpet, my feet sinking into the fibers as I make my way across the room. The air in this space smells like him, dangerous, spicy, intoxicating and when I get to the bathroom, I notice the shower is running, steam bellowing out from the top of the glass cubicle.
His eyes flash silver as they meet mine in the mirror.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a personal nurse service,” I grumble.
His teeth flash as he smiles, “Care to volunteer?”
I shrug and head over to the counter, stepping in front of him and scanning over his body. His pants hang low on his narrow hips, the firm muscles of his abdomen tapering off into a V that disappears beneath the waist line. A fine dusting of hair travels from his naval and disappears under the belt but he’s hairless everywhere else. The wounds on his body are superficial, grazes more than anything else but they are dirty, covered in grit or mud though the deepest and cleanest wound is on his stomach, just below his ribcage. It’s clotted and the blood that had run from it has dried so I start there, taking the cotton pad from his fingers and tipping some fresh antiseptic onto the pad. I slide it over his skin, wiping away the blood before getting to the cut itself.
I didn’t go deep, just enough to cause a small incision and the skin has already started to knit together. When that’s clean I move to the other grazes, cleaning them up, changing the pad and reapplying the antiseptic with each new cut I find.
He stands perfectly still, the only way I can tell he’s even alive is by the steady rise and fall of his broad chest. I move around his body, cleaning up as I go and start on his back. There’s new and old scars all over him, some aged and silver, others still angry, raw and pink. These scars tell a story of a life lived violently.