“What the fuck, Logan?”
“Turn around.”
Something in his voice makes me realize it would be a bad idea to disobey. So I keep my jeans at my ankles, my face hot as I slowly face away from him.
“Hands on the wall.”
Uhm… okay.
I stifle a gasp as I sense him move off the opposite wall and come near me. The warmth from his body burns my skin, and I nearly jump when his hand lands on my back, even though his touch is so light I can barely feel it.
I whimper as he drags the pads of his fingers down, lower and lower, to the place where my back meets my ass. He doesn’t stop there, sliding his palm over the swell of my bottom, before cupping my left cheek.
“Who do you belong to, Lia?” he growls in my ear.
I swallow an audible squeak.
“Lia,” he says, his voice lower and something that I could almost imagine is neediness softening its menace. “Who do you belong to?”
His hand slides toward my inner thigh, and I inhale sharply, squeezing my legs together so he doesn’t see the wetness gathering there.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
He darts his hand back up, grabs the flesh from my right ass cheek, and pinches hard.
Ow!
“Well, Lia?”
I’m on my tiptoes now, trying to get relief from the burn of his fingers as they torture my flesh. And then his other hand comes up and wraps itself around my neck, squeezing hard enough that I can’t breathe.
Fuck you! Fuck you!
I’m seething, angry, terrified, confused. He’s hurting me, he’s humiliating me, and yet a strange, incomprehensible pressure is building in my lower stomach.
But mostly, I’m just so fucking pissed.
I’ve grown lightheaded by the time he loosens his hold slightly, whispering in my ear, “Who owns you, Lia?”
No one!
God, I hate him so much. I fucking despise him.
The second he lets go of me, I croak out, “My husband.”
I don’t know why I say it. If there’s anyone in this messed-up world that I never want to belong to, it’s Carmelo Moretti. But I got the sudden feeling that those words would anger Logan. And after he’s just forced me to pee, then pinched my ass and squeezed my neck, the only thing I want to do is make him furious.
So much for self-preservation.
But he doesn’t seem angry. Or maybe he is, but his features grow impassive as he steps back.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice neutral. “Your husband. Pull your jeans up, Lia. I’m gonna take you back to your room.”
Somehow his cold, detached voice makes me far more terrified than any show of anger could.
Shaking so hard it feels like I’m going to collapse, I fumble with my clothing until I’m dressed. He grips my arm again, and when I glance up at him, not even his eyes tell me a thing.
I let him guide me back to my room, not trying to resist. As the door clicks shut behind me, I slide onto the old mustymattress, and curl my body protectively around Aurora’s. I’m struggling with a turmoil of emotion that I can’t even begin to decipher. It doesn’t seem possible that I’ll ever fall asleep, and yet, moments later, I feel myself drowsing off.
