Chapter 21
Phoenix
Zane’s plating breakfast like this is a fucking Michelin restaurant.
The bastard actually knows how to make it smell decent. But that’s exactly why he took over food provisions.
He’s quiet now. Jaw tight. Not looking at me much. Whatever storm hit him earlier hasn’t passed yet—he’s just ignoring the thunder. But at least he’s stopped trying to provoke me.
He’s already prepped a bowl of warm water and a cloth, perched on the counter next to the plate. Ivy’s breakfast. Ivy’s bath. Ivy’s everything lately.
Glancing over his shoulder, he speaks again. “Want some?”
I shake my head. “Not hungry.”
Liar. I'm starving. But not for food. I avoided the cell for a few days, but now, watching her sleep has become an unwelcome ritual.
Zane shrugs and spoons the scrambled mix onto the plate, then adds a pinch of salt from our dwindling stash like he's cooking for royalty.
It fucking bothers me. More than I’m willing to admit.
Leaning against the doorway with my coffee, I cross my arms and watch. Grinding down the thoughts that try to crawl back in.
She looked so good last week. And that hoodie didn’t leave much to the imagination.
But it was just a momentary lapse in my control. Won’t happen next time.
Zane sets the plate down, wipes his hands on the tea towel, and starts arranging the tray.
“I was thinking,” I say, tone easy. “...might be good to take her to the locker room sometime. Give her a proper shower. She’s been here a month. She can’t keep sponge bathing in a jail cell or she’ll start to stink.”
His smirk falters, and there’s something under it. Not quite annoyance—more like he’s flinching inward.
What the fuck is that about?
“Yeah… she could use one,” he mutters. “But I—” he pauses, “I probably shouldn’t be the one to take her.”
That catches me off guard.
“Why not?”
He grabs the tea towel again, folding it like he’s punishing it.
“Don’t think I can keep my shit together today,” he grumbles.
I nod slowly. “Alright,” I say, reluctantly. “I can take her.”
Zane tosses the towel onto the counter and finally looks at me, a faint tic cutting across his jaw.
“Do me a favour and take her soon, yeah?” he says. “She still smells like Myles.”
“Not funny,” I mutter.
“Didn’t say it was.”
The words land like a slap. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. That’d explain Zane’s shitty mood.
He lifts the tray and walks past me toward the hallway.
“Want me to comb her hair next?” I throw in sardonically.
Zane pauses and glances back at me sideways, that smug spark returning. “If you do, make sure to braid it too. She hates knots.”
I snort, a grin pulling at my cheeks.
Myles never appreciated that Zane deflects with humour to keep himself in control. We should all be grateful that he even tries. Because if he ever stopped… he’d scare whatever demons rile Myles up and have them running back to hell.
Then a stray thought crosses my mind. I actually know where a hairbrush is in the locker room.
But like fuck am I gonna comb her hair for her. It’s pathetic that I’m even thinking about her. Let alone like she’s someone I need to take care of.
She’s not part of this group.
I bring the shirt like I promised.
Clean and folded with clinical precision in my arms as I step into the holding room.
She’s sitting up on her bed, back to the wall, like she heard me coming. That instinct of hers—quiet, alert, always watching. Her eyes catch on the shirt in my hand almost immediately.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” she says.
“I did,” I reply flatly. Things may have gone awry during my visit last week but I’m not letting that happen again.
Stepping up to the cell, I see a faint bite mark on her neck and light bruising on her jaw. Myles’s scent is unmistakable.
He’s been busy with his pet.
Jealousy hit hard when he first brought her here—a vile emotion and weak moment for me. But I have it under control now. Myles and I were never exclusive anyway. I just got used to our routine.
"Get up," I order, tossing the shirt through the bars. "You’re getting a shower."
Her brows dip a little.
“Hot water,” I add. “Well… warm, if the valves behave.”
Her nod is cautious, slow, like she’s waiting for the catch.
Smart girl.
“There’s no trade,” I say, even though we both know there’s always a trade. “Just figured you’ve been sponge-bathing long enough.”
That’s the game, isn’t it? Pretending this is about care, when all it is... is control. Control is safety. Control keeps people alive.
She stands to her feet. “Thank you.” Her soft voice floats to my ears as I move to the cell door, I unlock it and wrench it open.
I grunt in response, not wanting to indulge the way her gratitude makes me feel.
She steps out a moment later. Barefoot. Hair a mess. Still too fragile but standing straighter. Like she’s forgotten how to cower.
"Let’s go," I say, turning to lead the way.
We don’t talk as we walk. Just the steady rhythm of my boots down the corridor and the rushed pad of her feet keeping up. I stay a step ahead. An approach I use with everything in my life.
When we reach the locker room, I shove the heavy door open and motion her through first.
"Inside."
She hesitates a beat, then obeys. Good girl.
The showers are… what they are. One large, tiled room. Lockers on one wall, showers on the other, drain in the centre. Industrial pipes running along the ceiling with one light that still works.
No curtains. No doors. No privacy. Just bare bones, military style. Same setup we used to have on base. Efficient. Functional. Dehumanising.
"Soap's there," I say, pointing to the metal dish on the shelf.
She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes scanning the space like she’s mapping exits. Part of me is proud of her vigilance.
"You’re staying?" she asks, hesitant.
My eye twitches.
"What, you think I’m gonna leave you to escape? Don’t be na?ve. You have ten minutes. Try not to waste water." As much as I’d love to let her escape, Myles would never forgive me, and he’d have us all out hunting for her until we caught her again.
She studies me, quiet, then nods and reaches for the hem of her shirt.
I don’t move.
She fiddles with the fabric nervously. "Are you gonna turn around? Or watch me the whole time like yesterday?"
I grind my teeth. She’s got a smart mouth for someone so dependent on our scraps. "Fine."
Facing the lockers, with my jaw tight, my hands curl into fists at my sides. The sound of fabric rustling behind me tightens every nerve in my spine.
The soft pad of her bare feet on the tile comes next. Then the pipes groan and water splashes. She gasps as the cold water hits her skin.
Did I forget to mention the water takes a minute to get warm? Such a shame.
Hell, who am I kidding? I didn’t forget. And it brings me so much satisfaction to know that she was blasted by that icy water.
Before long, steam fills the hollow room, a soap scent rising with it.
Water splashes lightly with her movement. Gentle. And my mind begins to fill in the blanks as I stare at the dented lockers in front of me.
Water running over her flushed skin and—
No. Stop.
Just as I’m getting my thoughts reigned in, she sighs. Moans. Soft. Absentminded. As if she’s alone. As if I’m not standing ten feet away with my blood running molten.
That sound—fuck, it’s a goddamn siren call.
My cock responds instantly. The tension coiling low in my gut. I shift slightly, trying to readjust without making a sound.
Don’t turn. Don’t look.
I last about thirty seconds
Then glance over my shoulder.
Water cascades down every inch of her, tracing every curve. Dripping over her ample breasts, sliding down her toned stomach, curving over her hips and dipping between her thighs. The delicate arch of her back forces her chest forward, nipples tight from the pressure of the spray.
Holy-fucking-shit.
She’s a fucking vision.
No. Not a vision.
A weapon.
Because everything in me wants to close the distance and touch her. Take her.
But I grit my teeth, force my eyes away. Focus on the rust-flaked metal in front of me. Cold. Rough. Unforgiving. Like I need to be.
Disciplined.
Even if my cock’s like fucking stone. Hands shaking. The need hitting me hard. I want to move. But I don’t. I’m in control.
She hums again, low and soft, tired maybe. Blissfully unaware she’s gutting me with every sound.
Fuck, this was a mistake.
The shower shuts off behind me, and her voice echoes in the room. “Do you... have a towel?”
Inhaling a breath through my nose, I open one of the lockers in front of me and hold a towel and a hairbrush behind me, keeping my face toward the lockers.
Her wet feet slap across the tile toward me before she takes the towel. “Thank you—oh. Uh… it’s a handtowel.”
“It’s a towel, isn’t it?” I say, voice strained. My muscles tight from the knowledge she’s within arm’s reach. “Get dressed. Or you can go back to the cell naked.”
But I can’t erase the image of her naked body from my head. I hate her for it. I hate her for being so soft. So gentle in a world so savage.
I shouldn’t have looked.
Because even now, I’m wondering if I could touch her and still hate her.
If I could make her bend to my will and scoop out the softness to devour.