“Tu es si belle, même quand tu es en colère,” he says softly, his fingers occasionally brushing against my neck as he works through a particularly stubborn knot. “Je ne peux pas te laisser partir. Tu es à moi.”
I finally find my voice, bitter and raw. “I guess this is part of it, huh. Sinners breaking their Chosen.” I laugh, the sound hollow and dead. “Well consider me fucking broken. Can you please cast me away now? Let me go.”
He says nothing, his fingers sliding through my damp hair. I’m about to turn around and tell him to fuck off again when I feel him sectioning my hair into three parts. The motion is so unexpected that I freeze.
“What the hell are you doing?” I finally ask, my voice still raw from crying. From his…cock.
He continues working silently, his fingers moving with practiced precision as he begins weaving the strands together in a braid. The rhythmic tugging against my scalp is strangely hypnotic. I should push him away but I allow myself to stay.
“Why are you braiding my hair?” I demand when the silence stretches too long.
His hands never pause. “I like it braided,” he says simply, his voice even. “Plus it’s easier to sleep in so it doesn’t tangle.”
Sleep? Is he fucking insane? “I’m not sleeping here.”
He continues braiding as if I hadn’t spoken, his fingers occasionally brushing against the nape of my neck, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.
“You’re not allowed to make yourself bleed, Seraphina,” he says suddenly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Don’t do it again.”
I snort, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. “Since when do you care about my blood? You marked me with yours, remember?”
“That’s different.” His fingers tighten slightly in my hair before resuming their work. “You’re broken and beautiful. Stop letting others into your head.” His voice drops even lower. “Only me. Only ever me.”
I whip around, jerking my half-braided hair from his grasp. “Are you fucking serious right now? You are one giant mind-fuck. What is this? Are you trying to Stockholm syndrome me?”
His eyes narrow slightly, but his face remains impassive. “Is that what you think?”
“What else would you call it?” I wrap the towel tighter around myself, suddenly feeling exposed despite the covering. “You drag me to your house against my will, make me...do things, then act all concerned when I have a completely normal breakdown. Now you’re braiding my fucking hair like we’re at a slumber party? It’s textbook psychological manipulation.”
“Turn around. Let me finish,” he says, reaching for my hair again.
Against my better judgment, I slowly turn back around, if only because I’m too exhausted to fight anymore. His fingersresume their methodical work, weaving my hair into a tight braid that pulls gently at my scalp.
“There,” he says finally, securing the end with something I can’t see. “Done.”
He stands abruptly, walking out of the bathroom without another word. I sit there clutching the towel around me, confused and drained. Part of me wants to make a run for it while he’s gone, but I know it’s pointless. The house is locked down, and I’m naked except for this fucking towel.
A minute later, he returns with clothes in his hands. He tosses them onto the bench beside me—a faded black t-shirt and a pair of dark gray boxers.
“Put these on,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless now.
I stare at the clothes, then back at him. “You expect me to wear your underwear?”
“Unless you want to sleep naked.” He shrugs like it makes no difference to him either way.
“I already told you I’m not staying here,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction.
Lucien crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at me with those cold green eyes. “I can’t trust you to be by yourself tonight. Not after what I just witnessed. So no, you’re sleeping here, and tomorrow I’ll take you back to campus.”
“I think the fuck not,” I spit, standing up so fast the towel almost slips. I grab it at the last second, holding it against my chest. “You don’t get to decide where I sleep.”
“You really don’t have a choice,” he says calmly, like we’re discussing the weather instead of my fucking freedom. “The security system is armed, and I have the only code. You’re staying.”
I glare at him, hating how helpless I feel. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
Amusement flickers across his face before he snorts. “No, I wouldn’t dare think you would.” He gestures around us. “You’ve seen this house, right? There’s more than one bedroom.”
“Oh, how considerate of you,” I snap, snatching up the clothes he brought. “The kidnapper offers separate bedrooms.”
