Try to process what's happening, try to understand his game, try to figure out what punishment looks like if it's not violence.
Vaughn is behind me. I can hear him moving around.
Opening cabinets.
Running water.
Then his hands are in my hair.
I flinch violently.
"Relax," he says, his voice low and calm. "I'm just washing your hair. You're covered in dirt and leaves and God knows what else from running through the woods."
"I can do it myself."
"I know you can. But I'm doing it anyway. Because you're mine to take care of now. Mine to tend to. Mine in every way that matters."
His fingers work shampoo through my hair with surprising gentleness.
The scent is masculine—sandalwood and something else, something that smells like him.
His shampoo, probably. Marking me with his scent.
He massages my scalp with steady, rhythmic pressure.
Working out the tangles from running through the woods, from hours of not caring about anything except getting away.
It feels good. Too good.
The kind of good that makes me want to close my eyes and lean into his touch and forget everything except this moment.
I should pull away.
Should maintain some distance, some barrier, some piece of myself he doesn't get to touch.
But I'm so tired.
So cold despite the hot water.
So defeated by everything that's happened.
I let him wash my hair.
Let him rinse it with warm water from a cup, his hands gentle as he shields my face.
Let him condition it and rinse again with that same careful attention.
Let him take care of me even though he's the reason I need care in the first place.
The irony isn't lost on me.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Doing what?"
"Being gentle. Taking care of me. I expected—I thought you'd hurt me. Thought this would be punishment. Thought you'd finally show me what you really are."
His hands still in my hair for a moment, then resume their gentle massage. "I told you I wouldn't hurt you."
