Seeming bored with the conversation, she turns and faces the gym equipment. Her lips turn down in a frown.
“What?” I ask, hating that she has thoughts as clear as day on her pretty face but she doesn't open her mouth to speak them.
“I told you I needed exercise and you have all of this equipment in your home.” She throws her arm out, indicating multiple pieces of exercise equipment before the point of her finger lands on the treadmill. “I could be using that every day.”
“You could,” I say, knowing she's going to wonder if I say it in offering or if I'm just being an asshole. She doesn't take the bait. She simply walks across the room, the tip of her index finger trailing over the equipment as if they hold more value than they actually do.
It shouldn't be sensual. I know she's not trying to turn me on with the way the tip of that one finger slowly caresses the arms of the treadmill before moving on to the weight bench. But that doesn't mean it's not affecting me in that way. I have to wonder if it's a way for her to get back at me, to taunt me, because I know that she would never touch me that way.
It makes me want. It makes me need. It makes me want to take the things that I need. Agitation once again bubbles to the surface, making the palms of my hands sweaty in the restraint it takes not to reach out to her, to grab her by the hand, and force the warmth of her palm against my chest. Knowing I can't do that, I huff and turn to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” she asks as if she has any right to question anything I do.
“To take a nap,” I grunt.
“You're not worried I'll try to escape?”
I don't answer her. I don't remind her that there is no escape. That there isn't a chance of her getting out of here unless I allow it.
“You're not worried I'll try and slit your throat in your sleep now that I have access to the kitchen?” Her voice trails after me as I make my way toward the bedroom.
“If only she were brave enough,” I mutter. Maybe that's what's best for both of us.
I don't close the door behind me as I enter the bedroom. I pop the light off and climb into the bed, wishing I would have bought her a different bodywash, shampoo, and conditioner, instead of her continuing to use mine. My bed smells like me and as I close my eyes, I find myself wishing that it smelled like her instead.
It doesn't take long before I feel her presence in the room and my heart races with the thought that maybe this is it. Maybe she did go to the kitchen and grab the knife from the draining board I used to cut the vegetables for our omelets.
Would I fight back? Would I turn that blade against her for having the audacity to try to use it against me? A month ago, I would have said yes, but today, I'm not so sure.
The bedroom door clicks closed, effectively locking her back into the room with me. I smile into the darkness. She'd never try to kill me, being visually impaired. The room is pitch black but I count the number of steps her shuffling feet make as she closes the distance from the door to the bed.
“Shit!” she gasps. I smile more at the cuss word spilling from her mouth than the realization that she ran into the footboard in the darkness. She hardly ever cusses. And like the couple of times those filthy words have slipped from her mouth, her eyes widen in surprise. The very first time it happened, she slapped her hand over her mouth, like I was going to chastise her, punish her, for using such language.
The bed dips beside me as she climbs up. Her breathing is stilted, coming out in small gasps. I angle my head more in her direction. Tiny whimpers are coming from her lips and I realize that she's crying. It's a different sound from the noises she makes when she's upset.
I flip on the bedside lamp and turn to look at her, finding her sitting but curled up in a ball. Tears stream down her face. I pull back the blankets to find out just what the fuck is going on. I notice the blood first before looking up at her face. “Your period?” I ask stupidly.
She swallows, fear in her eyes. She shakes her head, pointing down at her foot. Her big toenail has been damn near knocked off and it must have happened when she ran into the footboard. It's not a major injury. If it happened to me, I'd be more pissed than anything. But I also have to consider that she doesn't have the same high pain threshold that I do. She probably doesn't experience physical pain very often, and it's different for people who haven't fought to survive their entire lives.
“I'm so sorry,” she says and I hate that there's true fear in her eyes.
“You're sorry for hurting yourself?” I ask, my annoyance growing by leaps and bounds. Who the fuck feels the need to apologize for getting hurt?
“The blood,” she whispers. “The sheets are ruined.”
I reach for her foot but she jerks back. Even in pain, she doesn't want me to touch her.
Chapter 24
Raya
“Get out of the fucking bed, Raya,” he snaps angrily as he crawls out on his side.
I wince as I move at his command. My toe is killing me and his anger doesn't help. I limp like a baby, like I've severed a limb rather than just knocking my toenail off. I haven't been given many opportunities in my life to get injured. I'm always supervised. I'm always protected. There's always someone there to open the door, to help me out of a vehicle.
This is my fault. I should have left the bedroom door open. I honestly have no idea why I closed it. It locks me inside again with him. I don't have the freedom or the ability to just walk over to the bedroom door and open it. He made it clear in his home gym that the exercise equipment is there but not available to me.
“Sit on the fucking counter.” He points before opening the cabinet above where he keeps his towels.