"You smell like him. Like Oliver. And I can't—" His jaw tightens. "I can't think straight while you smell like another man. So. Shower. Now."
Before I can protest, he bends down. Scoops me up. One arm under my knees, the other around my back.
"Put me down!"
He ignores me. Walks toward the bathroom like I weigh nothing.
"Drogo! Put me the fuck DOWN!"
Still nothing. Just that steady march through my house, carrying me like a child throwing a tantrum. I hit his chest. His shoulder. Anything I can reach. "You can't just—I'm not some—PUT ME DOWN!"
We reach the bathroom. He sets me on my feet. I immediately try to bolt. He catches me by the waist. Spins me back around.
"Alena." His voice drops. Serious now. Dangerous. "You can shower willingly, or I'll put you in there myself. Your choice."
"You wouldn't—"
He reaches for the zipper of my dress.
I slap his hand away. "Don't you dare—"
He grabs the fabric instead. One hand on each side of the neckline. And rips.
The dress tears down the middle like paper. Black fabric splitting, falling away, leaving me in nothing but the destroyed remains pooling at my feet.
"YOU ASSHOLE!"
He kneels. Reaches for my heels. I try to kick him. He catches my ankle easily. Unbuckles the strap. Removes the shoe. Then the other one. Gentle despite everything.
Then he stands. Guides me—pushes me, really—toward the shower. "In."
"No!"
He leans down. Presses a kiss to my forehead—soft, achingly tender—and then pushes me gently into the shower stall.
I stumble. Catch myself on the tile. "FUCK YOU!" I yell as he turns on the water. Hot spray hits me. Soaking my hair. Running down my body. Washing away—Oliver. The dried wetness between my thighs. The evidence. I hate that he's right.
Drogo leans against the bathroom counter. Arms crossed. Watching me through the glass door with that infuriating half-smile.
"Are you going to stand there the whole time?!" I snap.
"Yes."
"Pervert!"
"I've seen it all before, babe. Multiple times. From multiple angles."
My hands freeze on the body wash. I open my mouth to respond and then close it. Fuck, he is right. We have been together for so long he can draw my body without even looking. His smile widens like he read my mind.
I lather soap. Rinse conditioner. Turn off the water. Stand there dripping, naked, furious.
"Happy?"
"Very."
"Towel," I demand.
He grabs one from the rack. Holds it open. I step out. Let him wrap it around me. His hands linger on my shoulders for a moment. Warm. Solid. Real.
