Chapter 24 #3
The bathroom was a little brighter than the main room, the small window letting in a thin wash of moonlight that painted everything in pale silver.
Rhys reached past me to turn the shower on.
The pipes groaned before water began to spill out, and steam started rising almost immediately, fogging the mirror in slow, creeping clouds.
“Clothes off,” he said, already pulling his shirt over his head. “Now.”
I quickly stripped, knowing it was pointless to argue. His eyes moved over me, and even in the low light I could see the glimmer of approval in them before he stepped past to test the temperature.
He got in first, and I followed.
As the hot water hit my skin, the dried blood began to loosen and run, thinning to nothing as it spiraled down the drain. I watched it go and tried not to think about whose it was. Tried not to think about anything.
“You're shaking,” Rhys said.
“I’m cold,” I muttered.
He let out a soft huff. “You’re not cold.”
He was right. The water was hot enough to sting. His hand closed briefly around my wrist; not restraining, just stilling me. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’re safe.”
By the time the water ran clear, my skin felt raw and my legs had mostly stopped shaking. Rhys reached past me and turned the shower off, then stepped out first and handed me a towel without being asked.
I wrapped it around myself and finally looked at him properly.
The moonlight coming through the small window was falling directly across him. He was drying off with his back half-turned to me, and the silvery light caught the line of his shoulders and the shift of muscle as he moved.
He was still the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on, and I hated him for it. Hated myself for noticing, too.
“I'll wash your clothes and hang them in here to dry,” he said. “You can wear one of my shirts for now.”
The t-shirt he gave me fell to just above my knees, the fabric soft and warm and smelling faintly of him. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him gather our dirty clothes from the floor.
“So what happens now?” I asked.
“Now we sleep,” he said, not looking up. “Or at least you’ll sleep. I have to wash these clothes first.”
“And where exactly am I sleeping?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Same place as me. The bed.”
I stared at him. “And you expect me to just lie there quietly all night?”
“No,” he said. “I expect you to wait until you think I'm asleep and then try to sneak out. Which is exactly what I'd do in your position.” He straightened and looked at me with something that wasn't quite a smile. “That’s why we're going to make a small adjustment to the sleeping arrangement.”
I didn't like the sound of that at all. “What kind of adjustment?”
He dropped the clothes and moved to the small chest of drawers near the window, pulling it open and rummaging briefly before producing two lengths of rope. Climbing cord, maybe.
“Lie back,” he said.
“No.”
“Alissa.” He said it the way you'd say the name of someone who was about to make a very avoidable mistake. “Lie back. Now.”
With a defeated sigh, I lay back.
He was efficient about it, looping the cord around one wrist and tying it to the headboard with a knot I couldn't see well enough to memorize.
Then he moved to the other side without any particular ceremony.
He secured my other wrist, followed by my ankles, tying them to the left-hand post at the foot of the bed.
I was about to bite out a sarcastic comment when he shoved a strip of cloth in my mouth. He tied it behind my head with the same matter-of-fact efficiency as everything else, and then stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“I'll be back in a while,” he said, voice laced with a hint of amusement. “Don't go anywhere.”
He stepped into the bathroom again, and I heard water running as he set about washing our clothes. I stared at the ceiling and tested the knots again. The cord had just enough give that I could feel the possibility of freedom without getting anywhere near it.
I made a sound of pure frustration into the gag while the man responsible for my captivity hummed very faintly to himself over the sound of running water in the next room.
Around twenty minutes later, his footsteps crossed the floor, and then the mattress dipped as he lay down beside me.
For a moment he was still. Then his arm came over me, heavy and warm, settling across my waist like it belonged there.
Like this was a normal thing. Like I wasn’t currently bound to a bed frame in the middle of a murder camp with a gag in my mouth.
He exhaled slowly, and within minutes, his breathing had evened out into something deep and steady.
I lay rigid beneath his arm, heart pounding, terrified and angry and humiliated in equal measure, with no outlet for any of it.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything except lie here and feel the weight of Rhys pressed against me while he slept without any apparent difficulty or moral complication.
I was utterly helpless. Utterly silenced. And utterly furious.
Earlier tonight, he'd told me he wasn't going to kill me. But if I ever managed to get out of this… I was damn well going to kill him.