Her eyes flutter open.
And just like that, blood starts pumping into my body again.
My Skylar.
She’s in front of me, her shampoo-soaked hair sliding over my chest when she tilts her head to the side and up, staring at me while I hold her upright by her throat.
That’s how I keep her from slipping, from crashing to the floor. With her back pressed tight to my chest, my spine braced against the tiles of my bathroom.
Earlier, I’d removed the strip of my shirt around her thigh, tossed the filthy thing aside, before I carried her in here. Blood isn’t trickling down her thigh anymore, as I predicted. She won’t need stitches or glue for this wound.
But her wound isn’t what I fixate on anymore. It’s her eyes.
Green. The kind that robs me of every thought.
It’s more than a color; it’s a world I can’t wait to experience with her. Meadows, parks, forests. The places I dream about when I let myself imagine my life outside of Colbert.
For one fragile second, I almost believe she’s already there with me.
Then a range of emotions surges in her gaze as she slowly blinks the world into focus.
Hurt, suspicion, and confusion are first.
Anger is last, hot and fiery, flashing across her face like a blade catching light.
I don’t react. Simply stare back at her, letting my obsession sink its hooks into her, to chain her to my sickness. The claim I have over her.
Only thing it earns me is her scowl.
There’s no comfort in being a captive. Even if her captor takes care of her. Even if he treats her better than he’s ever treated any of his hides. Even if his heart thunders for her, and only her.
I get it.
Doesn’t mean I’ll bend to make things easier for her. I won’t change who I am. Won’t be any less of the man she needs just because she doesn’t want me at the moment.
My hand stays right where it is, curled firm around her throat while I run a soapy washcloth over her skin.
The squeeze I give her throat has Skylar’s chin quivering.
Her nails drag lightly over my thighs. Just like in the farmhouse, she’s trapped between clinging and clawing, poised to either fight or collapse all over again.
She doesn’t breathe a word.
I could force her to talk if I wanted to. Or I could be gentler. Explain to her the reasoning behind this, why we’re standing, why I don’t let her soak in the tub.
According to her social media, she just graduated from pre-med. She’d understand that my arms aren’t a cage. That if her open wound comes into contact with the dirty tub, it could get infected.
Talking—explaining shit to her—would cost time.
Time we don’t have while her wound is still open.
I already lost enough of it cleaning myself while she was unconscious in the basement. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I couldn’t touch her again unless I were clean.
We’re almost done now. I already took care of her back. All that’s left is the front, and it has to be quick.
I do that while I continue watching her. Her defensive expression, the shivers racing down her body. I catalog every reaction as I lather her in soap, worship disguised as routine.
The silence thickens as I drag the washcloth over her breasts, the slope of her waist, the curve of her thighs.
