6. Maeve
6
MAEVE
T he water feels good. I won't admit it to Ronan, but I've been wanting a hot shower for days. I feel gross. I've been wearing the same blood-stained nightgown and robe for a week, refusing to accept his provision for me on account of my being held here against my will. I think about the closet full of suits and skirts I have at home in my closet and feel anger rise to the surface at how he thinks he can control my every whim.
He won't even let me have my own room. The first two nights, I slept in a hard armchair and barely got any rest. My back and hips hurt constantly, and so he ordered me to sleep in bed with him when he watched me limping and holding my back. It was very comfortable the first night, even with me on top of the covers and him beneath, but for the time being, Ronan has been a gentleman. Though his eyes definitely betray his true desire.
I see the way he looks at me while I nurse him. He's not sleeping as much as he was before, and we've had times where we sat in perfect silence between us while he did business or read a book—brought to him by his faithful soldiers who also like to ogle my appearance. I want to be home, away from all this testosterone and the egocentric males who surround me. But until Ronan decides I'm not a threat, I'm stuck.
I reach up and grab the shampoo and lather my hair up. The suds wash down over my body, and I rub them into my skin and scalp. The heat relaxes my stiff muscles, and I want to stay beneath its flow for ages. This is the first moment of true privacy I've had since they took me from my home that morning. Even when I pee, I have to leave the door open. It's not like I can escape in here. There isn't a window, and the air conditioning vent is too small for me to fit.
This time, however, I locked the door and said nothing. He didn't protest. Either he has a key to get in if he wants or he is starting to trust me. I'm not untrustworthy, so I'm not sure why he thinks I'd do something sinister in here. The worst I could do would be to swallow soap or eat the toothpaste—both could be deadly, but I'm not looking for an escape. Yet.
The door handle jiggles and then I hear the lock click. Of course, they have a key. It pisses me off that I can't even shower in peace. One of his hulking men stalks in and snatches my clothing, leaving a towel behind. I cover my tits and turn my body away so he can't see me, though the glass is thoroughly fogged so I'm obscured, anyway. And just as quickly, the man retreats without even looking at me, as if Ronan has now given the order for them to not even admire my body.
I relax a little when he leaves and linger in the water as long as I can. When the flow begins to get cold, I turn the hot water knob up, hoping I can stay, but I've exhausted the water heater. If I remain here much longer, I'll be chilled through my core, so I shut the water off and step out of the shower onto the pale blue bath mat.
As I dry off, I think of how Ronan has actually been somewhat kind to me. He's human. He has mentioned his gratitude for my actions that saved his life, though he's never directly said thank you. I feel like these assholes don't know how to have a gentle tone or touch in anything they do. They all need mothers to soften their edges, or perhaps wives who round them out. But he hasn't hurt me either, unlike his men.
They likely do his bidding when they push me or knock me around, but it doesn't come from his hands. He hasn't laid a finger on me, which is more than I expected when they put that chloroform over my face and knocked me out. But I can't trust him, and I can't let him fool me into thinking I'll ever be happy or safe around him.
Home is where I need to be. Home is where I'm safe—far away from him, far away from his violent life, the crime… Back to normal, my job, my coworkers, my peace. I sigh and feel the tension coiling in my stomach again. Thinking about those things makes me wish I could escape, even if I have to leave everything behind and start a new life just to be safe. I will. I'm not stupid. They'll just come after me, anyway.
I use the towel to wipe the mirror off and stare at myself in the mirror. There is a blue handprint on my arm from where one of his goons yanked me around. The lump on my head isn't swollen anymore, but my scalp is tender. No woman should have to endure this for any reason. These men are lunatics, out of control. It only strengthens my resolve.
When Ronan is sleeping, I'm going to escape. I'll climb out a window or sneak out of his room and find a door. And I'll run. I'll go to my mother, and I'll take her somewhere. We'll empty my meager bank account and we'll hide. And as long as I say nothing, we'll be safe.
I hear noise on the other side of the closed bathroom door, and I stop thinking about listening. There are male voices, two or three. They're saying something about hunting someone, how they'll seek revenge for Ronan's shooting. My throat constricts, but I'm not surprised when he says not to touch a hair on this man's head, whoever he is. Ronan wants blood for himself. It only reconfirms what I already know. Ronan is the devil in disguise.
When the voices fade and I hear the door click shut, I wrap the towel around my body and open the bathroom door. The man who came in here took my nightgown and robe. I have nothing else to wear, so the towel is it for me. I can't very well hide in the bathroom all day, so I step into the cool bedroom and bristle as Ronan's eyes drink me in.
"Who was that?" I ask, my eyes flicking at the door. He sits on the edge of the bed casually, as if he wasn't just having some sinister meeting in this very room.
"It was my brother, Finn. He brought you some clothing. We weren't exactly sure of your size, and now that garda are all over your home, we couldn’t go back to get yours. There are a few sizes here." He gestures to three piles of clothing on the bed, and I purse my lips. As kind as this may seem to anyone in a normal relationship, this is anything but normal, and our relationship is that of captive and captor.
I walk over, clutching the towel around my body tightly, and look down at the piles of clothing. Three pairs of jeans and three identical cream-colored sweaters. There are also panties and socks, but no bras. These guys are cavemen. Haven't they heard of undergarments?
"Do you like them?" he asks, but I know he doesn’t really care what I think. If he did, he'd let me go home.
"They'll do," I tell him, and I look over the sizes and see they've actually done a decent job. There is a size four, a five, and a six in jeans. I'm a five, which is perfect, so I select that pair. The sweaters are extra small, small, and medium, but since I have no bra, I choose the medium. It won't hug my body as closely, and I'll have a bit more modesty. The panties are small and medium. I take the smalls, and I turn to go back in the bathroom to dress. I fully expect him to stop me like some pervert wanting to watch me, but he leaves me alone.
I dress and then use the towel to wring out my hair as best as I can. There is no brush, so I have to leave it hang around my shoulders wet, but it feels good to be in real clothing again. It's also good because when I leave this place and have to run, I need to be wearing more than just a nightgown, especially a blood-soaked one.
When I step back into the room, Ronan has the gauze and tape out. He's ready for me to bandage his wounds again, so I walk over and sit on the edge of the bed next to where he leans against the headboard. He's put a shirt on, a button-down, but the front is open. He also has socks and slacks on now too, like he's intending to go somewhere. I know he is feeling better, but after being that sick with infection and after that much blood loss, I'd tell any patient to stay in bed.
"Thank you," I say softly as I take gauze pads and apply antibiotic cream on them and fix them to his chest. Even if he's a savage, it doesn't mean I have to be. I might want to escape him, but I won't let him turn me into a monster too.
He winces as I press the gauze into place and tape it down, but this pain is nothing compared to what he's already lived through. He's a very lucky man.
"Don't thank me. It's not like you had a choice." His eyes are stern. I take it that's his way of saying I'm welcome, but even that part of his moral compass is broken.
"It looks like you're healing well, but I wouldn’t get too comfortable being up and around. Your body still needs rest. You went septic for three days, and you lost too much blood." I finish the first bandage and move on to the second one. These two are easier, but I'll have to check his back too, where those exit wounds are.
"I have the best surgeon in the city." I want to take his comment as a compliment, but I can't help but think of how he told me he owns me now.
My eyes focus on my work, though I feel like something between us is shifting. He's speaking to me like I’m human now, not a slab of meat. Maybe now that he sees how I'm concerned for his wellbeing, he'll reconsider my departure. I'm not actually concerned for his wellbeing in the normal regard, but he is a patient, nonetheless. I work with precision and care as I finish bandaging him, and as I collect the bits of tape and gauze that are left over, he buttons up his shirt.
"So, when do you think I can go home?" I ask again, this time more timidly. I know what he's said in the past, but he trusts all of these men to have their own homes and lives. They follow him loyally. Surely, he can grow to trust that I won't tell a soul about him. And if he does, I can use that window to vanish and be safe.
"I'm not back to one hundred percent. I need someone watching over me in case the infection returns." He nudges my thigh with his leg, and I stand up as he drapes his legs over the edge of the bed. He really thinks he's going somewhere. He's insane.
"Well, with the antibiotics in your system, all you really need are fresh bandages every day. But even still, in two more days, I'll expect the wounds to air out and not be covered. None of them are seeping. If you were my patient at my practice, I'd tell you to check back in one week." I bite my lip as he stands and his stormy eyes look down at me.
My hands tremble with fright at his towering presence. He's taller than I really thought, though he's mostly been lying in bed or hunched over. And his tattoos and the other random scars on his body have spoken volumes about his demeanor and personality this whole time. Still, I feel very intimidated by him right now.
"You'll stay," he says calmly, "until I say you can leave."
"But I'm not needed, and you have all these other people working for you who know your secrets and don't say a thing. Surely, you can trust me to?—"
"I pay them to keep my secrets." His gruff interruption annoys me. I feel the calm leaving my body and being replaced with anxious anger. He can't really think he can keep me here. This is kidnapping.
"Then pay me, and I'll keep your fucking secret. I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed."
He tucks his shirt into his pants and brushes past me, moving for his closet. I think about dashing out the door, but with his men in the home, I’d never get past the hallway outside his door. So instead I stomp after him, walking into his large closet behind him.
"I'm keeping you here for your protection, Ms. Walsh, not to be petty."
"Well, you don't have to protect me. I don't need it. I'm fine on my own," I spit out, and I taste the venom on my tongue. I hate this man with his ego and control. He might be powerful and good-looking, but it doesn't faze me. Only the idea of freedom moves me now.
"Unfortunately, you belong to me, and I protect what is mine. Excuse me," he says, but he doesn't wait for me to move. Ronan walks out of the closet, and his right shoulder slams into mine, jarring me. He strides right to the door and opens it, and I follow on his heels.
"You can't do this! You will never get away with this." I feel fury in my body and my hands ball into fists.
"Watch me," he says with malice in his tone. Then he walks out the door, and before I can even reach for the knob, the door shuts and I hear the lock click. I'm left banging on it and screaming until my throat is sore and my voice is hoarse.
I have to get out of here.