Page 48 of The Tower

The hint of a smile touches his mouth. Barely even there. But enough for me to understand what it means—victory.

I look down, focusing on his large hands gently cleaning my small foot. Competent hands that tenderly wash away the dirt and tar and bits of stone and glass. His touch is soft enough to almost make me believe he cares. But this isn’t about caring. It’s about winning. About manipulation.

I’m not someone who matters. I’m simply a token in a game he’s playing with my father. For all intents and purposes, I’m not even really here.

“You still haven’t answered me,” he says. “Our arrangement. Is it a small price to pay, too?”

I look back down at the water, uncomfortably confused by the question. This is the man who is so carefully cleaning my aching, filthy feet. But he’s also a man I should hate. A man whose father is a monster. A man who stood beside me three years ago and told me I was nothing. Just a little brainless doll my father used to spread lies, and that’s all I was good for.

About that, at least, he was right. Because that was the press conference where the speech my father wrote, and I read to the press boldly stated that Elias Grimm had killed my mother.

Now I know the truth about my mother’s death. And now it’s Grimm using me to get to my father instead of my father using me to spread lies.

So I guess what Grimm said that night was right. I am an instrument to be wielded. To be used. And always on someone else’s behalf.

I want to scream all of that at him. I want to throw it in his face. But I can’t. For better or worse, I’ve tied my future to this man, at least until after the hearing that will decide the course of my life.

But when I open my mouth to answer him, it’s not a simpering little girl who answers. It’s a woman, and she lifts her chin, looks him in the eye, and says, “Everything? Why, no. It’s not a small price to pay at all. It’s torture.”

There’d been a teasing gleam in his eye. Now it fades into something else. Something that might be confusion. Then to something that can only be described as hard. Dangerous.

I tremble, wanting to take the words back. What the hell was I thinking? I’m not a girl who can take charge. The only place where I get to be in charge of my story is in Elysium. And I’m a long way from that safe, protective world.

“Torture,” he finally says, in a voice as sharp as a blade. “Nice to know we’re on the same page.”

He reaches for my other foot, and I try to draw it back, but he just tightens his grip. “Not your decision, Princess.”

I watch, silently seething, as he continues to clean my foot. As much as I hate that he’s forcing me to surrender, at least he’s not pretending the choice is mine. He’s not manipulating me like my father. He’s simply taking control.

It infuriates me, yes. But some small part of me can’t help but notice that it also feels disarmingly good.

We continue in silence, my attention locked on those elegant fingers. Despite what I said, this isn’t torture. Not by a long shot.

Then again, maybe it is. Because there’s something unexpectedly sensual about the way he’s gently removing bits of gravel and carefully cleaning each small cut.

“Cinderella in reverse,” I murmur, then immediately wish I could swallow the words.

Grimm pauses, looking up, two vertical lines forming above the bridge of his nose. “Cinderella?”

My cheeks go warm. “Instead of the prince trying the glass slipper on the girl’s foot, the prince is washing her feet.”

“I’m hardly Prince Charming,” he says, his blue eyes now stormy and wild. He hasn’t shaved, and a shadow of beard stubble makes him look even more dark and dangerous. No, not Prince Charming, but a dark prince? Most definitely.

“And despite my ancestry,” he continues, clearly unaware of the direction of my thoughts, “this isn’t a fairy tale.” He tilts his head. “Or maybe it is. You know how the original fairy tales turned out.” The hint of a smile plays at his lips, but his eyes stay hard. “I suppose if you’re not my princess, then it’s your toes that will be cut off.”

I shudder, but he’s not wrong. If I’m not with him, my father will find me. And he’ll do worse to me than what Cinderella’s stepsisters suffered.

I think of the ancient books in his study. “The original fairy tales truly were grim. Is that how your family got its name?”

“My family?” he repeats, his voice laced with a dark humor that reminds me that he really is the black sheep. I stifle a cringe, wishing I’d said nothing.

He puts the washcloth down, then moves the bowl out of the way before rising and offering me his hand.

I hesitate only a moment before placing my palm against his. He helps me get out somewhat gracefully. Then he kneels and uses a plush towel to dry my legs. When he’s finished, he remains kneeling, his hands resting lightly on my calves.

He tilts his head up slowly, and I can practically feel the heat from his gaze as it traces up between my legs, pausing at the junction for so long that I feel the pool of warmth at my sex. Then higher still until my nipples peak against the soft material of my bra. My mouth is parted, and I feel his gaze on my lips with the soft intensity of a kiss.

He continues the journey, and I expect that when he meets my eyes, I’ll see heat. The kind of heat I’ve only felt in Elysium.