She looks like a wreck. Her hair is tangled, her eyes are rimmed with red, and her clothes—faded jeans and a t-shirt with a hole in the collar—look offensive in this space. She is covered in the dust of her old life. The smell of the subway, the cheap detergent, the fear.
I need to wash it off.
I walk over to the tub and turn the tap. Water cascades into the stone basin, steaming hot. I add a capful of oil—rose and sandalwood. The scent blooms instantly, rich and intoxicating, overpowering the stale air of the city that clings to her.
"What are you doing?" she asks, backing away until her hips hit the vanity. She’s clutching her arms across her chest, defensive.
"The water needs to fill," I say, checking the temperature with my hand. Perfect. Scalding enough to burn away the past, but not enough to damage the skin.
I turn to face her. I take off my overcoat and drape it over the towel rack. Then I remove my suit jacket, folding it neatly. I undo my cufflinks, placing them on the counter, and roll up the sleeves of my white dress shirt to the elbows.
My forearms are vascular, the muscles shifting as I flex my hands. I see her eyes track the movement. She’s terrified, but she’s looking. She’s always looking.
"Take off your clothes," I command.
The air leaves the room.
Ivy stares at me, her mouth falling open slightly. "What?"
"Your clothes," I repeat, stepping closer. "Take them off. They’re filthy. I won't have them in my bed."
"I’m not... I’m not getting naked in front of you," she stammers, her face flushing a deep, mottled crimson. "You’re insane. You can't just kidnap me and expect me to—"
"I don't expect," I interrupt softly. "I take."
I stop two feet in front of her. I tower over her. I can see the pulse hammering in her neck, right beneath the diamonds I gave her. The birdcage pendant rests in the hollow of her throat, rising and falling with her frantic breathing.
"You have two choices, Ivy," I say, my voice low and reasonable, as if I’m explaining a simple business transaction. "You strip, get in the tub, and wash off the stench of that hovel you lived in. Or I strip you myself. And if I have to do it..."
I let the threat hang there. I let my eyes drift down her body, lingering on the waistband of her jeans, imagining the sound of the denim tearing.
"...I won't be as gentle as you might like."
She swallows hard. I see the calculation in her eyes. She’s smart. She knows she can't fight me. She knows I’m stronger, faster, and utterly devoid of the morals she’s used to hiding behind.
"Turn around," she whispers.
"No."
"Please," she begs, tears welling up again. "Don't look at me."
"I’ve already seen you," I lie. I haven't seen her naked. Not really. The cameras in her apartment didn't cover the bathroom. I’ve seen outlines. I’ve seen hints. But I haven't seenher.
"I want to see what I bought," I say cruelly.
It’s the wrong thing to say—or the right thing, depending on the objective. It breaks her spirit just enough. She squeezes her eyes shut, a tear tracking through the grime on her cheek.
With trembling hands, she reaches for the hem of her t-shirt.
I watch, unblinking.
She pulls the shirt over her head and drops it to the floor.
She’s wearing a mismatched bra. Grey cotton, frayed at the strap. It looks old. It looks like poverty. But the skin beneath it...
My breath hitches in my chest.
She is luminous. Pale, creamy skin that looks like it’s never seen the sun. But she is too thin. I can count her ribs. There’s a bruise on her hip—yellow and fading—likely from bumping into furniture in that cramped apartment.
