CHAPTER THREE
CIAN
THE WATER IS scalding, just how I like it, pounding against my shoulders as I lean one hand against the shower wall. Steam fills the bathroom, curling into the corners like smoke, but it does nothing to clear my head. Nothing does.
I close my eyes, tilting my head back under the spray, letting the hot water pound against the tension coiled in my neck. The day’s been long—too long—and my patience is a thread stretched to snapping. Another blowout with Uncle Finn over shipment routes. Same old argument, different day. His way or mine. Except his way always leaves loose ends—and loose ends are dangerous. Then there was Jason, the screw-up of the century, botching the drop-off. Why the hell we still let that idiot near the business is beyond me. The whole thing’s a mess, and, as usual, it’s fallen to me to clean it up.
The water doesn’t wash away the weight pressing down on my shoulders, and the ache at the base of my skull only grows sharper. My mind spins, replaying every misstep, every bad call, until my teeth grind together. I hate mistakes. Hate inefficiency. But most of all, I hate the sense that things are slipping through my fingers like water down this drain.
I let out a frustrated breath, my hand drifting lower as I try to find some kind of release, something to take the edge off. The image comes unbidden—one of the dancers from the club last night, dark-eyed and curvy, her dress clinging to every inch of her body. I’d thought about taking her home, but the idea of answering her the next morning killed the mood. I don’t do strings, and women always seem to want them, and I wasn’t a guy who used the back rooms in the club; I didn’t like using someone else’s bed.
The water slides over my chest, and I wrap my hand around myself, letting my mind wander. For a moment, I’m somewhere else, not in this house, not in this life. Somewhere quieter, freer. It’s just me and the dancer; she lowers herself to her knees and unzips my trousers. I stroke my cock as I envision her mouth warm and wet around it; she pushes my cock into the back of her throat; I let out a groan as I stroke harder, pushing deeper into her mouth, searching for the release. I pump harder, my hands wrapping around her long blonde hair, tightening against her scalp as I force her mouth up and down my shaft, moving her faster and harder. “Oh fuck, yeah!” I mumble, gripping my hand against the wall to keep my balance as I move even faster, rising on the tips of my toes to reach that place that will give me some freedom.
The illusion is smashed as a noise from behind me has my eyes snapping open, instincts kicking in like a live wire. I spin around, every muscle coiled tight, my hand flying to the gun concealed beneath the washcloth. The weight of it is a cold, familiar comfort—I even sleep with one under my pillow. My fingers curl around the handgrip, but I don’t pull it out. Not yet. My gaze locks onto the shadow in the doorway, my fingers loosen their hold on the gun, and I withdraw my hand, leaving it in its hiding place.
It’s her—the new maid. What’s-her-name. Luna.
She freezes, her wide hazel eyes locked on mine, her mouth falling open as her gaze drops— to my engorged cock.
“Jesus Christ!” she yelps, spinning around so fast she nearly trips over herself. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t—no one told me—”
I don’t move. For a second, I just stare at her, my mind trying to catch up to what’s happening. She’s got one hand clamped over her eyes like that’s going to erase what she just saw, and the other is fumbling with the door handle.
I should be pissed. Hell, I probably will be in a minute. But right now? I can’t help it. I smirk.
“You got an eyeful there, sweetheart?” I ask, my voice low and teasing.
She makes a strangled sound, halfway between a gasp and a squeak, but doesn’t answer.
“Turn around,” I say, leaning against the wall of the shower, the water still beating down on my back. “You’ve already seen me naked. Fair’s fair, don’t you think?”
“No,” she says immediately, her voice shaking. “I’m—I shouldn’t be here. I’ll just—”
I cut her off with a sharp laugh. “Oh, you’re here, all right. And you’re not leaving until we even the score.”
“Even the—” She stops, her shoulders stiffening as she realizes what I’m saying. She shakes her head, her voice rising. “No. No way. This is insane. I—”
“Luna,” I say, my tone softening, though there’s still an edge of command in it. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. Just—turn around.”
She hesitates, her fingers tightening on the edge of the door. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s trembling just slightly. She’s scared.
I like that.
But I don’t push her. Not yet.
Finally, slowly, she turns. Her head stays down, her dark hair falling into her face, but I can see the flush spreading across her cheeks, her neck. She’s wearing those baggy clothes again, the ones that make her look like she’s trying to disappear. They don’t do her any favors, but even so, there’s something about her—something soft, vulnerable.
“Take them off,” I say, my voice quiet but firm.
Her head snaps up, her eyes wide. “What?”
“You heard me.” I tilt my head, watching her. “Shirt first.”
She hesitates, her hands hovering near her arms as if she’s debating whether to follow my command. The defiance in her eyes sparks something in me, but I keep my face impassive.
“Do it,” I say, my voice low, but there’s an edge to it that I know she can feel. It’s not a request.
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. For a second, I think she’s going to bolt. But then, slowly, she reaches for the hem of her shirt. Her hands are shaking as she pulls it over her head, revealing smooth, pale skin and a thin tank top underneath.
“Keep going,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers.
She swallows hard, her gaze darting around the room like she’s looking for an escape. There isn’t one. Finally, she slides the tank top off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She isn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts fall free, round and soft looking. My cock twitches, and her gaze travels down before she quickly glances away, but not before she sees my erection. Her hands immediately move to cover herself, but it’s too late.
I take her in, my gaze sweeping over her. She’s slimmer than her baggy clothes made me believe, but there’s a quiet strength in her posture, a stubbornness in the way she holds herself.
“Turn around,” I say.
“No.” Her voice is firm this time, and for the first time, she meets my eyes directly. There’s fear there, yes, but also something else. Defiance.
I smile. I can’t help it.
“No?” I say while cutting off the spray of water and stepping out of the shower naked. I’m slow to grab a towel, letting her gaze linger on my body; even as she seems to fight with herself to look somewhere else, she can’t seem to stop. “But you should know—I always get my way in the end.” I wrap the towel around my waist.
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she slowly turns around. At first, I think she is obeying me, but instead, she gathers her clothes as quickly as she can. Her hands are shaking again, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t look at me.
My jaw tightens as my gaze roams over the bruising on her back, faint but unmistakable. Some are old, faded to dark shades; others are fresher, still red and blue.
I clench my fists at my sides. Who did this to her?
"How long?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
She stiffens, but she doesn’t turn back around. "How long what?"
“You know what I mean,” I snap, my patience slipping. “How long has someone been using you as their personal punching bag?”
She whirls to face me, her eyes blazing with a fury that catches me off guard. "You don’t get to ask me that," she spits, her voice shaking. "You don’t get to stand there and question me about my personal life."
The words surprise me; no, it’s not the words; it’s the venom behind them. I step closer, closing the space between us. She doesn’t back away this time, though her hands are trembling.
Her defiance falters, replaced by something I can’t quite place—fear, maybe, or exhaustion. She drops her gaze, her arms wrapping around herself like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“Who did this?” I ask.
“It’s not your concern,” she mutters so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
“Yes, it is,” I reply, my voice softening despite myself. “You’re in my world now. And in my world, no one touches what’s mine.”
Her head snaps up, her eyes wide with shock.
“I’m not yours…” Her lips tremble, brows pulled down in confusion.
I’ve seen enough of her body to know she could be mine, in my bed for a few hours.
I smirk at her. “Oh, sweetheart. But, you are.”
She quickly pulls her tank top back on and then her jumper, her cheeks blazing.
Once she fixes her top, she folds her arms across her chest. “Can I leave?”
“No.” I tilt my head. The bruises need answering, too. A man hitting a woman isn’t something I could tolerate. I want to know who the coward is.
“Who marked you?” I find myself saying, while glancing at her chest which is now covered, hidden under the baggy sweater. My cock jumped just thinking about how full her breasts were. How nice it would be to play with them.
“My boyfriend.” She juts out her chin, a look of anger flashing in her deep hazel gaze.
I nod. “You can leave now.”
She drops her arms to her side and quickly ducks out of the bathroom.
I’ll have to find out more about her boyfriend, who thinks it’s okay to hit her. I wonder how he’ll feel when I unleash my wrath on him.