Chapter 10
Ten
Wynter
Istand frozen, clutching the towel, as he turns his back to me.
It’s a small concession, a tiny island of privacy in an ocean of his control, but I seize it.
My hands tremble as I drop the towel, the cool air a shock against my warm, damp skin.
I feel exposed, vulnerable, even with his back to me.
His presence is so immense that it feels like he has eyes all over the room.
I quickly pull on the clothes he left. The black lace of the underwear is sinfully soft, a luxury I have never known.
The cashmere sweater and pants feel like a warm, gentle hug.
It’s a cruel irony. My captor is dressing me in clothes more comfortable and expensive than anything my own stepmother ever allowed me.
Evilin believed in beauty through suffering, corsets, restrictive gowns, and shoes that pinched.
This is different. This is comfort as a form of control. A gilded cage.
“I’m dressed,” I say, my voice coming out stronger than I expect.
He turns around slowly. His eyes rake over me, from the top of my head to my bare feet on the rug. His gaze lingers, and I feel a strange, hot flush creep up my neck. It’s not a lecherous look. It’s assessing. It’s… proprietary. Like an artist examining his finished work.
“Good,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
He walks toward the bathroom, disappearing inside. I hear the sound of water running. What is he doing? My mind races with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. Is he going to join me? Is this where the kindness ends, and the brutality begins?
He emerges a moment later carrying a large, fluffy black towel and a first-aid kit. He gestures to the edge of the bed.
“Sit,” he commands.
I hesitate, my feet rooted to the spot.
“Wynter. Sit.” There’s a warning edge to his voice this time, a promise of consequences if I disobey. My brief moment of defiance evaporates. I do as he says, perching nervously on the edge of the mattress, my hands clenched into fists in my lap.
He kneels in front of me and places the towel on the floor.
My heart hammers against my ribs. He is so close.
I can see the faint lines around his eyes, the dark stubble shadowing his sharp jaw.
He lifts my right foot and places it gently on the towel.
His touch is firm and confident, sending a jolt of electricity straight up my leg.
“Your feet are cut from running,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. He opens the first-aid kit and takes out an antiseptic wipe. “This might sting.”
He cleans the small cuts on the soles of my feet with a surprising gentleness.
I bite my lip to keep from crying out, as much from the unexpected intimacy of the act as from the sting of the antiseptic.
No one has ever touched my feet. No one has ever knelt before me.
Evilin would have sooner died than perform such a menial task.
He is my captor. The monster who bought me. And he is kneeling at my feet, tending to my wounds with the focus of a surgeon. The contradiction is so profound it makes my head spin.
When he’s done, he doesn’t let go of my foot. His thumb slowly, deliberately, strokes the arch of my foot. The sensation is exquisite. A soft, involuntary sigh escapes my lips.
His eyes snap up to meet mine. They are dark, turbulent pools of blue, and the hunger I see in them is so raw, so potent, it steals my breath.
The air between us thickens, charged with a dangerous, unspoken energy.
He wants me. The realization is not a surprise, but the intensity of it, the sheer, undisguised need in his gaze, is terrifying. And thrilling.
My body betrays me completely. A liquid heat pools low in my belly, and my nipples harden against the soft cashmere of the sweater. I know he sees it. I know he sees the effect he has on me.
A slow, predatory smile touches his lips. He knows he’s winning. He brings my foot to his mouth and presses a soft, warm kiss to the arch.
I gasp, snatching my foot back as if I’ve been burned. The spot he kissed tingles, a brand of heat on my skin.
He rises to his full height, towering over me. The moment of gentleness is gone, replaced by the predator who is back in control.
“I’m having dinner brought to us here,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Don’t even think about trying to leave this room.”
He turns and walks out, locking the door behind him. I’m left sitting on the bed, trembling, my mind a chaotic swirl of fear and a new, terrifying excitement.
He didn’t hurt me. He knelt at my feet. He cared for me. He kissed me.
And I liked it.
The realization is the most terrifying thing of all. I am not just a captive in his home. I am becoming a willing participant in my own corruption.