“Blood,” he repeated. “There’s blood on the floor. Are you on your period?”
My face burned at his blunt question. “No.” I didn’t know why I was embarrassed. My menstrual cycle, and every other woman’s, was perfectly natural and not something I was usually shy about. Especially not in the industry I worked in.
I stepped to the side, trying to avoid his hands, when he suddenly grabbed my ankle and lifted my right foot off the floor. I heard him curse softly.
“What?”
“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.”
I thought I caught a hint of anger in his tone. Instinctively, I tried to pull my foot out of his hand when he probed at the cuts with his finger. I’d totally forgotten about my barefoot run through Gino’s yard, such as it was, with all the rocks and burs in lieu of grass. But now that he mentioned it, the bottoms of my feet did sting now that I was getting more feeling back into my body.
Gently, he set that foot back on the floor and picked up the other one. After he poked and prodded at that one, he put it down and said, “I’ll be right back.”
I startled. He’d stood up silently and was now directly behind me, his voice tight. Leaving the cell, he locked me in. “Wait!” I called. “Don’t leave me here like this!”
He showed no sign that he’d heard me, walking out of the bedroom without a backward glance and closing the door behind him.
“Dammit.” I rattled the cuffs against the bars and looked longingly at my meal growing cold on the floor. “Tristan!”
But then he was back, and in his hands was what looked like a bottle of peroxide and a tube of something, along with some bandages. He let himself back into the cell, locking it behind him. “Give me your foot,” he ordered.
“My feet are fine. I'll rinse them off and clean the floor after I eat.”
“Luna.”
A tingle ran through me at the way he said my name.
I heard him exhale. “Please let me clean those cuts so they don’t get infected.”
If they did, would he bring a doctor to treat me? That just gave me all the more reason not to comply.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he told me. “But it wouldn’t work. Our doctor is paid well to keep his mouth shut and forget what he sees as soon as he leaves. He wouldn’t dare try to help you get out.”
Knowing I was pushing my limits, and not wanting to find out what would happen if I pushed him too far, I rolled my eyes and lifted one foot behind me.
He lowered himself to his haunches and set down the supplies he’d brought. Then he gently took my ankle in his hand.
“Thank you,” he told me.
I tried to ignore how warm and gentle his fingers were as they held my foot in the air, cleaning out the cuts and applying the salve. Tried not to remember the way those fingers had felt exploring my body. But by the time he wrapped the bandage around my foot and tapped my ankle so I would give him the other one, my chest and face were warm, and my breathing was erratic. I tried to play it off like he was hurting me, but I didn't know if I succeeded.
He didn’t say a word as he tended to my sore feet. And when he was done, he went into the bathroom and came out with a wet cloth that he used to clean the floor.
I had the insane urge to apologize to him for making a mess, but caught myself before I could. Why the hell should I? I never asked to be here. Never asked him to save me.
But if he hadn’t, you’d probably be right back at Gino’s by now. Hell, you might even be dead.
I shut that voice down. It might be true. It might not. It didn’t matter. I was a prisoner here. At least with Gino, I had the illusion of still having a choice.
He took the washcloth with him when he left the cell, locking me in before he removed the cuffs. “Eat.” He nodded toward the food he’d left on the floor for me.
This time, I didn’t even pretend to fight with him about it. Hobbling a bit on my bandaged feet, I sat on the blanket and pulled the plate of food and glass of water toward me.
Outside of the cage, Tristan lowered himself to the floor, crossed his long legs at the ankles, and leaned back against the wall across from me.
I ignored him. If he got off watching me eat, then he could have at it. I was fucking starving. Picking up the fork, I stabbed a bite of the pre-cut steak and brought it to my mouth. It was touching my lips when I paused and pulled it away, eyeing it like the red meat had suddenly turned into a snake.
“Do you not like steak? I don’t make it often, but it’s good for you to eat after being through a traumatic experience.”
