That’s when I hear them.
Footsteps. Splashing back toward me.
I peel my eyes open and turn.
It’s him.
“Are you fucking joking?”
The words come out shaking with rage. My hands ball into fists at my sides.
Marco stands at the edge of the shower area, still fully dressed. Water from the steam beads on his dark hair. His eyes are unreadable, that same blank mask he’s worn for days now. The same blank mask he wore after he almost drowned me.
“What do you want now?” My voice comes out hoarse, damaged. “Are you here to finish me off?”
He says nothing. Only steps forward.
The sound of his boots on wet tile echoes through the empty shower room. Each step deliberate.
“Go on, then.” I spread my arms wide, water still streaming down my chest. “Smash my head against the tiles. Or push my face into the water. You’re an expert at that.”
Still nothing. He circles me once again, his dark eyes cataloging every bruise on my body. Every mark he put there.
The moment stretches from one breath to another.
He raises his hand. Slowly. Lifting it toward my neck.
I don’t block him. Don’t flinch. I let him see exactly what he’s done to me.
His fingers brush across the tender flesh where his forearm crushed my windpipe. Light as a feather. Almost gentle.
I hate how my cock jumps to attention at his touch.
Oh, Ihatethis fucking man.
I shove him hard. He flies backward, slamming into the wall with a wet thud. I’ve got some strength back, apparently. Enough to send him reeling.
Still expressionless. Still that blank, unreadable mask.
“Well?” I demand. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
He blinks once. Slow. “What is there to say?”
I laugh, brittle as glass. I hadn’t expected an apology—not really. But I hadn’t expected this. Whateverthisis.
More mind games?
I’ve had enough.
“You’re really something, aren’t you?” Another laugh, darker this time. I step closer, backing him against the wall. “A real piece of work.”
My hands find his chest. Shove him again, harder. His head hits the tile with a dull crack.
He doesn’t fight back. Just stands there like a placid doll, letting me push him around.
This angers me more than his violence did.
“Why did you decide to fuck with me?” I slam my palms against his chest. “Because you’re a psycho freak?” Another shove. “Did you think I’d be an easy target?”
