That should make me feel trapped. Instead, it makes me feel…
Not safe. I won’t insult myself by calling it that. But steadier, maybe. Less alone.
And damn it, yes. I feel safer knowing that they’re watching me in some form or another.
Let them watch.
They had their chance to help me. Every one of them. They have information, resources, reach. Power I don’t have and can’t buy. They could have pointed me at Deacon, could have told me what they knew, could have chosen—just once—to be something other than selfish men playing games with a woman’s grief.
They didn’t.
Although, I can’t actually blame them for siding with their family. Yes, their family can matter to them. But my family matters to me.
So let them watch me do it myself.
The thought puts a hard, sharp kind of energy under my skin. It kind of makes me want to give them somethingtowatch.
I move slowly at first on purpose, stretching in the middle of the room until my spine arches and the thin straps of my camisole slip down one shoulder. Ever would have placed cameras in here. I don’t know exactly where, but I can make a few educated guesses. Smoke detector. Lamp. Maybe near the TV. Something tucked clever and small in a place a normal person wouldn’t notice because a normal person isn’t expecting to be surveilled by a man who thinks subtle violation is practically a love language.
I peel off my camisole and leave it draped on the chair.
My panties follow. I bend and snap, of course. From the hips.
If one of them is watching—and I know one of them is—I let him have the full, shameless view of me crossing the room in nothing but my skin. I bend to scoop up Homer. I scratch under his chin and murmur nonsense to him while his purr starts up loud as a tiny engine. I set him beside the dish on the table and pour his food with slow movements, making no effort to hide anything.
“Breakfast for one mini tyrant,” I tell him.
His little tail flicks, and he dives in. I smile despite myself and head for the shower.
The bathroom is barely bigger than a closet. The glass enclosure is still skeezy and spotted no matter how much I wipe it down, but it’s transparent enough to make the point. I turn the water hot and step under the spray, bracing my palms against the tile for a second while steam begins to gather.
Then I glance outward.
Toward the room.
Toward them.
My mouth curves. It’s mean, maybe. Perverse in its own way. But so is everything else about the fact that I know I’m being watched..
I soap up slowly, deliberately. Let my hands roam. Down my throat. Over my breasts. My stomach. Between my thighs. Not for pleasure at first, but for the message.Eat your heart out, boys.
If I close my eyes, I can almost feel the weight of their attention. Nash’s cold, possessive stare. Shiloh’s filthy amusement. Ever’s silence—that one might be the worst because with Ever, I never know if the quiet means restraint or appetite.
The thought sends a pulse of heat through me that has nothing to do with the water.
I touch myself harder.
It’s defiance. That’s what I tell myself.
Spite.
A reminder to them and to me that my body is still my own, even if they’ve all taken their turns trying to claim pieces of it.
Still, by the time I’m done, my breathing is uneven and my forehead rests briefly against the cool tile.
I rinse. Step out. Dry off.
And when I catch my reflection in the streaked mirror, cheeks flushed and eyes too bright, I almost laugh.
