Chapter 5 Blood Bonds #3
“It’s not too bad,” he pulled away the cloth, and she sucked in a breath at the sight of blood. “That’s just from cleaning it up. It’s not as deep as I thought.” He blotted gently. “What happened?”
So much had happened in the forty-eight hours, she couldn’t remember what specifically caused that specific gash. “I bumped my head.”
His ice-blue gaze met hers. “You don’t say?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, and he smiled.
“You’re prettier when you tell the truth.” He wet the cloth again and dabbed away the last of the blood.
Were her lies that obvious? “Do you blame me for wanting to protect myself?”
“No.” Setting the cloth aside, he uncapped the disinfectant. “This might sting. Shut your eyes.”
Her lashes lowered, and she wondered if it was stupid to trust someone who basically wanted to keep her as his prisoner. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth when he doused the cut.
“Sorry.”
Idiot that she was, she believed him.
Pressing her lips tight, she tried not to twitch from the sting.
Warm air blew softly over her temple, and the pain receded. “Better?”
She opened her eyes and forgot how to breathe. He was close enough that she could see the stubble under his skin. By night, his jaw would be covered in a golden five o’clock shadow.
He gently swabbed ointment over the gash. “This should help with scarring. You can keep it.” He pressed the small tube into her hand.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“My pleasure…printsessa.” He didn’t back up or reach for the gauze. Somehow, he’d worked his way between her knees without her noticing. But now she was very aware of how close they stood and that she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the sweater.
“Ash…”
He smiled, and she was right about the dimple. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“My name.”
“Ash.”
Silence stretched between them, neither one of them moving away. If anything, she might have leaned closer. Maybe she’d hit her head harder than she thought. Wasn’t there a name for people who developed feelings for their captors?
Her eyes drifted past his shoulder to the butcher block stuffed to the gills with sharp knives.
He caught her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. “Don’t go there. It won’t end well for you.”
“Is there any way this ends well for me?”
“I’m not your enemy.”
“How can you say that when you know nothing about me?”
“I know people. Anyone can do terrible things when pushed hard enough. Who pushed you, printsessa?”
The urge to bare her soul took her by surprise. She couldn’t be so trusting. Dropping her gaze, she broke eye contact.
“I see.” He lifted her chin. “Here’s what I do know.” He dragged a calloused thumb over the delicate bone of her cheek as if to emphasize how breakable she was. “If you turned on us, I know who would win.” He pressed a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to further meet his. “And so do you.”
He was right. If she somehow armed herself against them—three to one—they would have her disarmed within seconds, and that would be the end of their kindness. But this wasn’t kindness. This was captivity.
“Will I regret staying, Ash? If I give you what you want, will I eventually hate myself for it?”
“You never know.” He shrugged and gathered up the trash on the counter. “Scrambled eggs?”
The intimacy vanished as if it had never existed at all. She remained on the counter as he pulled ingredients from the massive refrigerator with practiced efficiency.
“Or are you more of a pancake girl?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
He shot her a look. “I thought we established you’re prettier when you don’t lie.”
“What makes you think pretty is some monumental goal of mine?”
“Isn’t it every girl’s?”
“No.”
He returned to the island and caught her shoulders in a gentle grip. “Pretty or ugly, we all need to eat. When’s the last time you had a substantial meal?”
“Last night.”
“Bread and cheese hardly constitute a meal.” His hands closed around her ribs, and her spine lengthened as his fingers swept along the underside of her breasts. “You need to put some meat on these bones.” He stilled, noticing her tension but not removing his hands. “Does my touch bother you?”
Her jaw trembled. What could she say? They both knew the deal. She dropped her gaze again, but he didn’t let her go. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters.” He held her without force, but also in a way that made his entitlement clear. “We’re not interested in your suffering, printsessa.”
She gave a subtle shake of her head, admitting his touch—as of this moment—was not as abhorrent as she’d assumed it might be. She could abide intimacy like this, though her tolerance did have its limits.
He moved his hands higher, now cupping her intimately enough that her nipples pressed through the wool between her flesh and his palms. “How about now?”
Breath tight in her lungs, she looked up at him with pleading eyes.
“You don’t have to be afraid with me, princess.”
Men loved to say things like that, but they would never know what it was like to feel threatened at the market or endangered by simple jogging with headphones in after dark.
He purposely held her breasts through the sweater, waiting for her to shove him away. “You want to say something, but you’re afraid to share too much,” he whispered, warm breath tracing over her cheek. “I love a challenge. Soon enough, I’ll know all your secrets.”
Cold slithered through her veins. That could never happen.
She met his stare, this time her eyes issuing the challenge.
He grinned and lowered his hand, sliding it expeditiously under the draping sweater in one swift move. “How about now?”
The heat of his palm teased upward, gentle and smooth. Other men had touched her far worse.
“Here’s a crazy thought,” he whispered. “What if you give us what we want and it turns out you enjoy it? What then, printsessa?” He grazed the soft curls at her apex, then dragged his other hand higher. “It feels good to surrender, doesn’t it? No responsibility. No shame.”
The heat of his hand closed around her breast, lifting the weight as he gently cupped her.
“You don’t have to think. You only have to feel.”
His thumb brushed over the pebbled tip, and she fidgeted ever so slightly, inadvertently pressing her body closer.
“There you go. Give in to the pleasure. Admit it’s not all that bad to be ours.”
Ours.
How could he touch her like this, then let them do the same? She tried to imagine Hunter’s hands on her, and her shoulders hunched inward.
His hand disappeared the moment her body language shifted to uncertainty. He turned away from her so fast she swayed, slightly off balance.
“Breakfast.” He cracked eggs into a bowl with the precision of a chef. “You need protein. Something to put color back in those cheeks. Scrambled or fried?”
As if summoned by his words, her stomach produced an embarrassing rumble that made him glance over his shoulder and grin.
“Scrambled eggs it is.” He had no issue deciding for her.
She wondered if he’d honor her choice and give in to her preference if she spoke up. Tugging the sweater down to her knees, she watched him cook, fascinated by him despite her unease.
His movements were economical, precise, like he’d performed this ritual thousands of times before. Did they frequently find women trapesing around their halls in the middle of the night? Something about this seemed too practiced.
He whisked the eggs into silky batter as butter heated in a pan. When he pulled fresh herbs from a drying rack in the corner, she wondered how any garden could thrive in this Arctic wasteland. They must have trucks delivering goods, which meant trucks would also leave.
“You don’t look like a cook,” she said in an attempt to make small talk.
“What do I look like?”
She studied the strong line of his jaw and the golden hair curled at his nape. His casual strength was evident in every movement. “Dangerous.”
“I am dangerous.” He glanced at her, ice-blue eyes dancing with amusement and darker promises. “But I’m also practical. Can’t survive on takeout forever. And we get very few deliveries out here over the winter months,” he added, as if sensing her train of thought.
“Do you live here year-round?”
“This is our home—among other things.” He slid perfectly scrambled eggs onto bone china and set the plate in her hands. “Eat.”
“Fork?”
He shook his head slowly, as if daring her to disobey. “Use your fingers.”
Was that because he was testing her, or because he didn’t trust her around sharp objects? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a challenge. Plucking up a cluster of fluffy eggs, she popped them in her mouth and nearly moaned.
The eggs were creamy and rich with hints of fresh chives and something that might have been truffle oil. “Wow.”
“I’m glad you approve.” He grinned. “Now me.”
She stilled, and understanding dawned.
Pinching another delicate cluster between her fingers, she slid it into his mouth. He caught her wrist the moment she tried to pull away, forcing her hand to stay there as he sucked them clean, his eyes watching her response closely.
When he released her, she continued to stare. No one had ever licked her hand like that.
“Keep eating, printsessa. It’s getting cold.”
To her, it felt warm. She tried to eat slowly, to maintain some dignity, but hunger won out. Within minutes, the plate was empty, and she was licking her fingers much like he had.
“Better?” Ash asked, his voice warm with approval.
“Much.” She felt almost human again. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” His smile held shadows that quickened her pulse. “It’s time to test your commitment.”
Before Marigold could ask what he meant, he took the plate from her hands and pressed her shoulder, forcing her to lie down on the countertop. “What are you—”
“Relax.” He slid a dishcloth under her head. “I want to see if you’re strong enough to follow through on your promises.”
“Why?”
“Because we always do.”
Her back flattened onto the cool marble countertop, and her heart thundered in her chest. All sense of safety gone.