I slowly and quietly pull the sheet back and slide out of bed. My legs wobble like a newborn foal. I reach a hand out, steadying myself on the bed, keeping my eyes on the door. This could be my chance. While he’s distracted, maybe, just maybe, I can creep my way out and make a run for it.
Moving slowly and steadily, I make my way around the bed, always looking back over my shoulder at the bathroom door, while also searching for a discarded shirt, something, anything to wear, so I don’t freeze my ass off out there.
The floor is clear. The room is immaculate.
Pfft, must be the only guy on the planet that has a room this tidy. Not that I have many, if any, to compare against.
In the corner by the door, an embroidered black jacket hangs on a mannequin. I trace my fingers over the black, gothic-style stitching. Nibbling on my lower lip, I remove the jacket, checking over my shoulder again.
I slide the jacket on. It barely covers my behind, but it’s better than nothing.
Exhaling a slow, shuddery breath, I turn the handle, wincing as it creaks lightly. Glancing behind me one last time, I open the door a crack, my heart thundering in my chest.
“Going somewhere?” his deep voice vibrates behind me.
I freeze, jumping when his hand reaches above me, pushing the door firmly shut.
I turn around, panic rising. What now? More torture? Death?
The palm of his hand remains pressed against the door above my head, his entire body blocking me in, caging me. His dark hair drips wet as he glares down at me with furious amber eyes.
All I can do is look back at him with regret and pleading desperation.
His eyes travel down, his jaw tenses.
I fumble in a hurried mess to get the jacket off. “Sorry, I… I would have returned it,” I lie.
Of course I wouldn’t have returned it. I’d have thrown it in the trash.
Or sold it. It’s far too beautiful to throw away.
As I shimmy out of it, I realise he’s standing there in nothing but a towel. So consumed by his furiousgaze, I hadn’t noticed he was dripping wet before me; semi-naked and dripping.
My gaze roams over his torso, the marks and patterns in black covering most of his body, continuing down along the deep V below his waistline, disappearing under the towel.
Wowzers. The man is the epitome of evil beauty.
Everything about him draws you in; every part of him is desirable. But beneath that—beneath the muscled body, the sharp jawline, and lips that look like they could transport you to worlds unknown—is he evil?
He isn’t the devil. No. He’s the demon luring you in, a siren for the underworld. I can feel it. He isn’t the boy your parents warned you to stay away from. He’s the one they crossed the street to avoid, the one that would have them locking their doors and drawing their curtains at night.
He is the shadow, the nightmares that haunt your dreams. The monster under your bed.
Maybe it’s being this close to him, trapped by him, that lets me see it, feel it. Or maybe it’s the drugs they pumped me with that’s making me feel this way.
“It’s the drugs,” I blurt out, the thought escaping my mind. I quickly clamp my mouth shut.
My eyes meet his.
“The drugs made you steal my jacket and try to escape?” he asks, his face inscrutable.
I give a slow, small nod in agreement, still anxiously nibbling on my bottom lip. I taste blood.
He takes in a slow, calculated breath, closing his eyes. He steps back, his body rigid.
“Back to bed,” he orders, looking away, like he needs to look anywhere but at me.
It’s then that I remember that I’m standing in just my underwear, no bra. Of course, he’ll look away. I suppose that should be some relief, that he isn’t about to rape me or anything.
