He grabs some bottles from a cabinet. “You’ll have to live with Old Spice.”
I shrug. “It’s better than Axe.”
If I’m not mistaken, the ghost of a smile graces his lips.
He turns on the water and sits on the lidded toilet.
Annoyed, I ask, “Are you going to sit there the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Pervert.”
“I’m a lot of bad things, but I wouldn’t call myself that.”
“Monster?”
“That’s closer to the truth.”
I shed the blanket again, figuring it doesn’t offer any real protection. He’s going to do what he’s going to do. I’d be foolish if I thought I could stop him.
And maybe I wouldn’t care to. It’s not that I want him, but bartering flesh for food isn’t the worst possible thing I’ve been made to do. And Hunter isn’t exactly atrocious. Well, he is, but not in the physical sense.
Not that I want him, or any man, for that matter. But he doesn’t make me want to vomit.
Getting into the tub makes me wince. My muscles ache from my many bruises, and when I squat, I nearly fall back.
Hunter reaches forward, steadying me. I cut him a glare, yanking my arm away and taking greater care in lowering myself into the tub.
Okay, so maybe I’m being a jerk. He hasn’t raped me, and I believe that he never intended for Caspian to take me.
Sure, his character is undeniably immoral, but he seems to have some type of code. Murder: hell to the yes! Rape: best to ask for permission.
As much as I’d love to lie back and relax, I’m filthy. Absolutely disgusting. No wonder he hasn’t raped me.
Reaching around to rub soap into my back brings tears to my eyes, but I try to hold them in lest Hunter judge me.
Everything hurts. I feel aches I didn’t think were possible.
After removing the the top layer of grime, Hunter asks, “Would you like me to refresh your water?”
I look down to see a pool of murky brown, wondering how much bacteria is floating in the water. “If you could.”
He pulls the plug, allowing the water to vacate before turning on the faucet again.
Chivalry is not dead. Or if it is, it’s in corpse form, just like the walking dead.
The analogy is almost poetic.
Not that refreshing my water makes Hunter good. I still think about what he’d done to Madam Levy. How he peeled the flesh away from her muscles and revealed her bones. How he didn’t let her die.
Then, as she sat in anguish, unable to even scream, he took me, hardly acknowledging my presence while doing so.
Even now, as he sits next to me cleaning myself, refilling the water, he doesn’t look at me the way most men would. There’s no hunger in his eyes. He’s devoid of emotion entirely.
A chill draws up my spine as cold comprehension washes over me. This isn’t a man that needs to fuck. He needs something else. Something far darker.
Which begs the question: why am I here?
