“It’s nothing you’ll ever fucking see again.”
The vehemence in my voice seemed to surprise us both. The words came out sharp and clear, cutting through the drug-induced haze. My anger was a lifeline, a tether to reality, reminding me that we weren’t just bantering, that this wasn’t normal.
This was captivity. Assault. A violation of everything I was.
“Right,” Tom said quietly, something that looked like shame crossing his features. “I apologize.”
He turned around, facing the door with rigid posture.
This was what he was sorry about? Not the kidnapping. Not the imprisonment. Not the drugs coursing through my system right now. Just this small invasion of privacy, this tiny boundary he was suddenly willing to respect.
The absurdity of it made me want to laugh and scream in equal measure.
I managed to get my shirt off, then my pants, though everything felt too heavy, requiring too much coordination. My arms didn’t want to cooperate, kept getting tangled in fabric like they’d forgotten how clothes worked. The buttons were impossible to undo, my fingers clumsy and thick.
“You gave me too much,” I said, frustration bleeding into my voice as I struggled with my sports bra, the elastic fighting me.
“I didn’t. I gave you less than the usual dose.” Tom kept his back turned, staring at the door. “You’re just weak because you won’t eat.”
That shut me up. Because he was right, and I hated that hewas right. Hated that my own stubbornness had brought me to this—so weakened that a standard dose of sedative hit me like a freight train.
I finally got myself undressed, discarding my clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor, and looked at the bathtub. It seemed very far away all of a sudden, even though the distance couldn’t be more than a few feet.
“I need…” I swayed slightly, the room tilting. “I can’t…”
“Do you need help?”
Yes. God, yes. But admitting it felt like another surrender. Another piece of myself handed over.
I tried to lift my leg over the edge of the tub and nearly fell. Tom moved fast, catching my elbow, steadying me with firm hands.
“Just… help me,” I said finally.
He did.
He kept his eyes averted as much as possible while helping me into the tub, his touch impersonal and careful, like I was a patient and he was a nurse. He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until warmth cascaded over me, and I made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a moan.
It felt unreal. Better than anything I had felt in days. The warmth seeped into my bones, washing away layers of grime and exhaustion. I could feel the dirt lifting from my skin, could feel myself becoming human again instead of something feral and caged.
“Lean back,” Tom said, and I did, letting my head fall against the curved edge of the tub.
The porcelain was cool against my skull, a pleasant contrast to the warm water cascading around me. He knelt beside the tub and reached for the detachable showerhead, bringing itclose to wet my hair. His fingers threaded through the tangled mess, gentle and patient, working out the knots with the kind of care you’d use with something precious and fragile.
Then came the shampoo. The scent was familiar—my shampoo, the one I kept at his place for when I stayed over—lavender and vanilla.
His fingers worked the lather into my scalp, massaging in slow circles that made my eyes close involuntarily. The sensation was overwhelming in the best way, tingles spreading across my scalp and down my neck.
For a moment, I could pretend this was the before. The time before everything went to hell, when his touch meant comfort instead of danger, safety instead of threat.
The drug made it easy to pretend. Made it possible to forget.
He rinsed my hair carefully, the water running through it in warm rivulets, his hand cupped to shield my eyes. Then came the conditioner, and it was the same patient process, like he’d memorized my ritual, spreading it through the length of my hair, letting it sit while he massaged my scalp again.
He reached for a loofah and body wash, lathering it up until it foamed. “Can you do this part yourself?”
I tried to lift my arms, but they felt too heavy, like my limbs had been replaced with lead.
“You do it,” I said, too tired to be embarrassed anymore.
