“I am aware, but you are still weak, and I don’t want to deal with you hurting yourself further,” he says as he places me back in his bed.
“Careful. I would almost think you care,” I retort as he draws the silk sheets over me.
He pauses, those goddamn eyes burning into mine. “Whatever made you think I didn’t?”
“The torture chair. The way you said you wouldn’t care if I starved myself because it would save you a job. The fact that I’m still held prisoner, and you won’t let me leave. Even though I am of no use to you.” I pause. “To name but a few.”
I notice the corner of his mouth twitch, in annoyance or amusement, I’m not sure.
“I see a good meal has brought you back to your inquisitive self,” he says.
“Apologies. I’m sure you appreciated the quiet,” I quip.
This time there’s no mistaking it. He grins, gripping the sheets tight in his fists on either side of my hips. He leans in, his face a mere inch from mine.
“Oh, petal, quite the opposite. I rather missed your mouth,” he murmurs, his gaze briefly flicking to my lips before he stands and walks into the bathroom.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
He steps out of the bathroom a moment later, shirtless, and climbs into the bed next to me, still in his jeans, lying on his back with his arms behind his head, his muscled torso stretched out on display.
“You’re sleeping in your jeans?” I ask in disbelief.
His eyes flicker to mine. “You didn’t like me naked,” he says.
I sigh. “I didn’t say I didn’t like you naked.”
He rolls onto his side, leaning on his elbow, his mouth tipping up at the corners. “So, you did like it?” he muses.
“No. I—” I stutter. “Do you know what, never mind.”
Huffing, I lie down and roll onto my side, keeping my back to him.
I hear him chuckle lightly as he rolls back over to sleep. I can’t help the small smile that plays on my lips as I close my eyes.
The room is silent, as this place always is. My eyes flicker open to see him sitting beside me, his gaze fixed on my face.
I inhale sharply. “Holy shit!” I press my palm to my chest. “Do you watch all your prisoners sleep?” I ask, my voice rough with sleep.
He doesn’t answer straight away. He just sits there, still watching me. Something has shifted. The air feels different.
“Only the ones that matter,” he says at last.
I push up on my elbow and look back at him, my eyes still heavy. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” he answers bluntly.
I study him, his face a mask, void of emotion. “Why?” I swallow. “Why me?”
He leans on his elbow, his index finger and thumb gliding across his bottom lip. “Because you saw too much.”
Suzie.
The thought of her almost feels like it happened in another lifetime. Images flash behind my eyes; the dying man in his arms, bodies on the party floor. Yes, I had seen too much. Too much I’d forgotten or shoved away, but that wasn’t it. You don’t hold a prisoner in your own room.
“That’s not what I mean.”
Silence stretches between us. My eyes flicker to his clenched fist on his lap.
