Wrecker kept his gaze on the monitor, but his hand landed on my knee, grounding me.
“Don’t let him get in your head,” he said, thumb tracing a circle through the denim.
I nodded, but my whole body was trembling now, every cell vibrating with adrenaline or memory or both. I wrapped my arms around myself, tried to get small, but it didn’t help. The pressure in my chest built until I could taste iron on my tongue.
“He grabbed me here,” I said, pointing to my throat. “But it’s everywhere, you know? I feel dirty.” The last word barely made it out. “Like I’ll never get it off.”
He froze, then turned away from the screen and knelt in front of me, hands cupping my face. His eyes were so pale they almost looked blue now, the gray leeched out by rage. For a second, I thought he might punch a hole in the wall, but instead he just held me, fingers gentle.
“Let me fix it,” he said, voice scraped raw. “Let me make it right.”
Before I could answer, he stood, scooped me up, and carried me down the hall to the bathroom attached to his bedroom. It was huge—tile everywhere, cold and white, the kind of place you could clean up after a massacre and no one would ever know. He sat me down on the marble counter, then turned on the water, running the tub full blast. The sound filled the room, deafening, but all I could focus on was him.
He stood me up and peeled off my hoodie, then the turtleneck. Then he knelt and rolled down my jeans. He did it slow, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he moved too fast. His hands lingered on my hips, then my thighs, every touch soft as wind. I watched him, half-expecting him to stop, to reconsider, to realize I was more trouble than I was worth. But he never hesitated.
He undressed himself next, and my breath caught in my chest. I’d seen his body before, and it was just as majestic as I’d remembered. But now, in the bright white light, every scar was a map, every tattoo a history. He was built for violence, but there was a tenderness in the way he folded his clothes, set them aside, then climbed into the steaming water and reached for me.
I followed, skin prickling, heart jackhammering in my ribs.
He pulled me between his legs, my back to his chest, his arms a cage of warmth around me. The water was almost too hot, but I didn’t care. I let it scald the memory of Silas from my skin.
He reached for a washcloth and lathered it with soap. The scent was wild: bergamot and sage. It smelled warm. It smelled like home. His hands were careful, reverent. Every time he found a bruise, he lingered, thumb tracing circles until the ache went away.
His soapy hands lingered, rinsing the memory from my skin. At first, the cloth skimmed across the surface—shoulders, arms, ribs—each stroke steady, impersonal, as if he was working on a puzzle instead of a person. But as the water cooled and the bruisesfaded from blue to red, the way he touched me changed. His thumb trailed the line of my collarbone, then slipped down to the curve of my breast, tracing circles until the nipple stood up in shock. He shifted, legs bracketing mine, and the heat from his body lit up the whole bath.
I pressed my thighs together, but he noticed, always noticed, and reached between them with a wet hand. His fingers were rough and callused, and the contrast to the soft cloth made me gasp.
He washed me slowly, starting at the outside, then working in. I let my knees drift apart; the water sloshing in little waves, and waited for him to do what he wanted. He watched, lips twitching into a crooked smile. He liked watching. He liked making me squirm. He liked knowing that even after everything, I would still give myself to him.
His hands drifted lower, and my breath caught. The first touch was gentle, the second rougher, and by the third I was grinding against his palm. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hate myself for it, but it felt too good. He ran a finger along my slit, then circled my clit, light as air. I moaned, and it echoed off the tiles, a sound I didn’t recognize as mine.
He bent forward, pressed his mouth to my ear. “You want it?” The words were hot and thick. “Say it.”
I tried, but the air wouldn’t come. He pinched my nipple, and the shock of it broke me open. “Please,” I whispered, the word small and pathetic.
He smiled for real then. “Good girl.”
He lifted me from the tub, water streaming down my skin. The air was cold, but his hands were hotter than before, working over every inch of me with the towel, drying me but also teasing, testing, leaving marks of a different kind.
He slipped a robe over my shoulders and took my hand.
“Let’s go.” He said as he gave my hand a small tug.
Within just a few minutes, I stood at the edge of Wrecker’s playroom, the air thick with the scent of leather and something darker, primal. The dim light cast long shadows across the room, and I felt the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. My heart pounded as he stepped closer, his bare feet silent against the cold tile floor. He wore the towel from when he’d exited the bathtub, his muscles flexing with every deliberate movement, his tattoos twisting like living shadows beneath his skin.
He led me to the padded St. Andrew’s Cross.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice low and filled with promise.
I obeyed without hesitation, my breath hitching as I faced the St. Andrew’s Cross. The leather padding felt cool against my palms as I pressed my hands against it. Behind me, I heard the soft clink of chains, and I shivered, anticipation curling low in my belly.
His hands were rough as they gripped my wrists, securing them to the cross with practiced ease. The metal cuffs bit into my skin, but the pain was distant, overshadowed by the electricity sparking between us. He stepped back, and I felt the loss of his warmth like a physical ache.
“You’re mine, Parker,” he said, his voice a growl that reverberated through me. “Every inch of you. And tonight, I’m going to make sure you forget everything, every other touch but mine.”
His words sent a thrill down my spine, and I whimpered, my body already reacting to his dominance. He moved behind me, and I felt the heat of his body as he pressed against my back. His hands trailed down my sides, ghosting over my hips, and I shuddered, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
“I’m going to take care of you tonight, Wren. Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice a growl that sent shivers down my spine.
