He was an alien. Granted he was built like a brick shit house who'd nearly gotten himself killed to protect me. But I should be terrified. Disgusted. Planning my escape.
Instead, I was standing here with my thighs pressed together, trying not to think about the way water had traced the contours of his chest. The way his muscles had shifted under that pelt. The sheer size of him. The scent—God, that scent—all male and dangerous and somehow safe at the same time, which made no sense at all.
I was losing it. Had to be. The stress, the fear, the exhaustion—it was all catching up with me, scrambling my brain, making me react to him like some hormonal teenager.
My hands were shaking as I reached for the dress chains. I peeled the dress off with jerky movements, trying to focus on anything except the fact that he was on the other side of this partition. That we were sharing this space. This room. This bed.
That I'd just been caught staring at him like a starving woman looking at a feast.
The shower spray hit my overheated skin, and I bit back a gasp. The water was too hot, but I didn't adjust it. Maybe the heat would burn some sense back into me.
I heard him moving around out there. Footsteps. The rustle of fabric. The creak of the bed.
My body responded with another unwanted rush of heat.
This was survival instinct, I told myself firmly. Stockholm syndrome. Trauma bonding. I could name it, could catalog exactly what my brain was doing to cope with captivity and fear.
And it didn't matter. Knowing what was happening didn't change a single damn thing.
I scrubbed at my skin harder than necessary, trying to wash away the confusion, the fear, the attraction I had no business feeling.
It didn't work.
When I finally turned off the water, I stood there dripping, staring at my only option for clothing. The ridiculous dress with its chains and sheer panels.
I didn't want to put it back on. Didn't want to walk out there wearing something designed to display me like merchandise.
But the alternative was a towel that barely covered me, or nothing at all.
I pulled the dress on with shaking hands. The chains were cold against my still-damp skin, making me shiver. The sheer fabric clung to my wet body, even more revealing than before.
I took a breath. Then another. The thought of Ahrick stretched out on the bed all muscle and loin cloth...
Nope. Not going there.
I stepped out from behind the partition.
Ahrick was on the bed.
My breath caught. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in the slow, even rhythm of sleep. The stitches I'd put in stood out dark against his pelt, and I saw the bruises already forming across his ribs, his jaw, his shoulders.
I stood there, uncertain, my hands twisting in the fabric of the dress. There was nowhere else to sleep. No couch, no chair that looked remotely comfortable. The floor looked like concrete, clean, just obviously uncomfortable and cold. No where else to rest. Just the bed.
The bed where he was.
As if sensing my presence, his arm moved and those golden eyes opened, finding me immediately.
"Come rest," he said quietly, holding out a hand toward me.
I froze. "I can sleep on the floor."
"No."
"I don't want to hurt your injuries—"
"You won't." His hand remained outstretched, steady. Patient. "Come here, Merrilee."
I didn't move. Couldn't move. Every instinct screamed at me that getting into that bed was dangerous—not because I thought he'd hurt me, but because of something else entirely. Something I didn't want to name.
