Chapter 10 Violet #2
His nails scratch lightly against my scalp, and my body loosens. Muscles going slack against the tile and his leg, tension draining out of me like water down the drain.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Until I taste copper, metallic and grounding. Pain instead of whatever this warmth is, curling through my belly.
He rinses the shampoo, then works conditioner through the worst of the tangles. Careful not to tug. Patient with every knot.
“I’ve wanted to touch your hair since I saw your picture.”
His voice is quiet. Almost reverent.
My stomach tightens again. That same hot pull low in my belly that has nothing to do with hunger.
I hate myself for noticing how genuine he sounds.
“You’re insane,” I mutter. It lands thin. Weak. Not the venom I intended.
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps working through my hair, strand by strand, like he has all the time in the world.
When the conditioner is rinsed, he presses a soaped washcloth into my hand.
“The front.”
I take it. My arm shakes as I drag the cloth over my chest, my stomach, my thighs. Every movement is slow, deliberate, exhausting. I’m washing myself in front of my captor and somehow this is my life now.
When I can’t reach my back, he takes the cloth without asking.
The first pass across my shoulders makes me stiffen. The second, along my spine, raises goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature.
I’m starving. I’m touch-starved. This is biology, not attraction.
I repeat it like a prayer.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
But my traitorous body tracks every place his fingers brush. The warmth of his palm through the thin cloth. The careful way he moves, methodical, thorough, never lingering but never rushed.
The water starts to cool.
He shuts it off and stands, then offers his hands. “Come.”
I let him pull me up because I literally cannot stand otherwise.
He wraps a thick towel around me, tucking it in at my chest. His knuckles ghost over damp skin, barely there, and my breath stutters.
He hears it. Another subtle inhale. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
No comment.
“Better,” he says. “I’ll choose something for you to wear.”
I want to tell him I can dress myself. What comes out is shaky, pathetic.
“Fine. Just—just get out.”
“You forget, tesoro.” He guides me out of the bathroom, one hand hovering at my elbow. “I’ve seen every angle of you on camera. And now in the shower. Modesty is... academic.”
The bedroom is tidied.
Bed made. Floor spotless. Every trace of my rebellion erased.
Including my clothes. The heap I left on the bathroom floor, henley, jeans, underwear, boots, is gone. Vanished like they never existed.
“Where are my clothes?”
“Being laundered.”
A flat lie. He doesn’t even try to make it convincing.
Panic flares, hot and sharp. I want to tear apart the room, search every drawer and closet, find the last pieces of my old life and cling to them.
But I’m barely standing. The towel is the only thing keeping me upright.
He crosses to the wardrobe. Opens it. Surveys the contents with the casual authority of someone who planned every item on these shelves.
He pulls out underwear first. Soft cotton, pale pink, simple. The kind of thing that looks innocent while being devastatingly intimate. Then a bra that matches. Then a dress. Dove gray, elegant, the kind that skims the body without clinging.
He lays them on the bed. “These.”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Turn around,” I say, not really expecting him to comply with my request.
But he does. Immediately. Hands sliding into his pockets, posture easy. He gives me his back without being asked twice.
While I fumble with the towel, he strips off his wet shirt and reaches for dry clothes hanging on the valet stand by the door.
Of course someone had them ready, this place runs on invisible hands.
He steps out of his soaked trousers and into dry ones, then pulls a fresh shirt over his head, and I catch the shift of muscle across his back, the dark ink of a tattoo disappearing below his waistband, before I make myself look away.
My towel falls to the floor.
The air is cool against my damp skin. I drag the underwear up my legs with shaking hands, and the fabric is obscenely soft. It glides over my skin, and I have to clench my jaw against the sensation.
My nipples tighten against the cool air and the memory of his hands in my hair.
I grab the bra. Try to fasten it behind my back but my fingers slip. Again. Again. The clasp refuses to cooperate, and my arms are shaking too badly to manage the fine motor control required.
“May I?”
His voice comes from over his shoulder. He hasn’t turned around.
Humiliation burns through me. Hot and thick and awful.
“Just do it.”
He turns. Steps behind me. His fingers find the clasp and fasten it in one smooth, practiced motion, his knuckles grazing the curve of my spine.
My stomach clenches, sharp and involuntary.
His breath catches just for a second. Right behind my ear, close enough that the warmth ghosts over my skin.
Then he steps back, gives me space.
Why isn’t he gloating? Isn’t this exactly what he wanted?
I drag the dress over my head. It falls perfectly, even if a bit loose, skimming my hips, stopping just above my knees.
His hands settle on my shoulders. Adjusting the seams. Smoothing the fabric into place with light, precise touches.
Heat flares everywhere his fingers land.
He turns me toward the mirror and I watch my own heartbeat pick up in the pulse at my throat.
The woman looking back is a stranger. Clean. Groomed. Dressed in his taste, his colors, his choices. Hair damp and smooth, falling in waves past my shoulders.
I look like someone who belongs in this house.
“Beautiful,” he says.
Not smug. Just quietly satisfied. Like he’s admiring a painting he just acquired.
My stomach flips. A flutter that has no right to exist, that feels horribly like attraction.
“I hate you.” The words come out raw. Honest.
“I know.” He meets my eyes in the mirror. “You can hate me and still let me keep you alive.”
He moves toward the door.
“Wait.”
The word is out before I can stop it. I lurch for the bed, reaching under the pillow, fingers brushing cold metal—
His hand closes around my wrist. Gentle but firm. Immovable.
“No weapons at the table.” There’s no anger in his voice, no threat. Just a rule being stated.
“It’s not a weapon, it’s—”
“You’re too weak to use it tonight.” His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling it race beneath his fingers. “And I’m not in the habit of dining with sharp objects pointed at me.”
I could fight him. Try to wrench free, grab the caliper, go for his throat. But I won’t win, and I’ll lose my chance at food.
I let go.
The metal stays hidden under the pillow.
He releases my wrist and steps back then offers his arm like we’re going to a fucking gala.
I don’t take it. But I follow him out the door.
Unarmed. In his clothes. Held upright by the same man I plan to kill.
The dining room is a cathedral of excess. Long table, candles, crystal, porcelain, a frescoed ceiling with some Renaissance scene I’m too hungry to identify. The chandelier alone probably costs more than my childhood home.
One chair at the head. One setting.
I stop. “Where do I sit?”
He walks to the chair. Sits. Looks up at me with those dark eyes and pats his thigh.
“Here.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“You can barely stand.” His voice is mild. He sounds reasonable. And infuriating. “You’ll slide off a normal chair and crack your head. This is... efficient.”
The smell of the food hits me. Hot fat. Roasted herbs. Warm bread. Citrus. My knees actually buckle, and I have to grab the edge of the table to stay upright.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer to help. Just watches me fight with myself from that chair.
My body makes the choice before my pride can object again.
I lower myself onto his lap.
Sideways. Perched on his thighs like a child on Santa’s knee, which is somehow both better and worse than straddling him.
One of his arms comes around my waist. Not gripping, just... steadying. A warm, solid band across my stomach. The other rests near the plate. His thighs are solid beneath me, while the press of his chest against my back is a wall of heat soaking through the thin dress.
My body, overwhelmed by contact after six days of isolation and pain, responds with a coiling awareness that is absolutely not hunger.
No. Absolutely not. This is survival. This is humiliation.
You do not like this. You do not like him.
My pulse flutters where his forearm crosses my stomach. I can feel it beating against his sleeve.
He feels it too. The muscles of his arm tighten slightly. I hear the faintest hitch in his breathing.
He doesn’t comment.
He cuts a small piece of chicken. Brings the fork to my mouth.
“Open.”
“I can feed myself.”
“You’ll inhale it and vomit.” He holds the fork steady. “I’d like to avoid that.”
The smell is too much. My jaw unlocks before I can stop it, and I take the bite.
Taste explodes on my tongue.
Salt. Fat. Lemon. Heat. The crisp skin gives way to tender meat, and flavors I’d forgotten existed flood my mouth.
My eyes sting with sudden tears.
My body leans back. Just a fraction, just an inch, seeking support without permission. His hand spreads more firmly over my waist, holding me against him.
He waits until I swallow before giving me the next bite.
Controlling the pace, controlling everything.
His palm stays broad and warm across my abdomen. When my stomach cramps and I bend forward with a gasp, he holds me through it. The warmth seeps through the thin dress, spreading into my skin, and it’s comforting.
That comfort horrifies me.
My stomach tightens beneath his hand, and my thighs tense slightly where they rest over his. A minute shift of my hips to ease some internal ache I refuse to name.
He hardens beneath me. Unmistakable reaction.
Oh god, no.
He inhales. Sharply. His grip on my waist turns almost painful for a second before he forces his fingers to loosen. Then deliberately shifts his hips away, putting a fraction of space between us that somehow feels worse than contact. Because now I know. And he knows I know.
He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t acknowledge it. Just reaches for the fork with a hand that’s slightly less steady than before.
“Do you get off on this?” The words scrape out between bites. “On feeding the girl you kidnapped?”
“I get...satisfaction...” He pauses, choosing his words. “From preventing you from slowly killing yourself out of spite.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
His thumb moves. Just once. Along the side seam of my dress at my waist.
Every neuron in my body lights up.
“I enjoy having you here,” he murmurs. “But I am not enjoying your pain.”
I hate that part of me believes him. That the part that believes him is the same part currently melting into his warmth. I want to cut it out of myself.
I eat until my stomach rebels. He stops me before I tip into sickness, somehow knowing the exact moment when one more bite would be too much. Then he holds a glass of water to my lips.
“Drink.”
I do. Cold shock against my throat, spreading through my chest. His knuckles brush my mouth, and I swallow wrong, coughing.
Tears track down my face. Silent. Unstoppable. I’m too tired to hide them anymore.
“Why are you crying?” His voice is soft. Curiousity seeping through.
“Because this is fucked.” The words catch in my throat. “Because I promised I’d rather die.”
His chest rises and falls against my back. Slow and steady.
“You’re allowed to change your mind.”
I didn’t, I think, appalled. My body did.
When I push the plate away, he doesn’t argue.
“Enough for tonight.”
He helps me stand. My legs tremble so badly my knees buckle on the first attempt. I stumble, and his arm slides fully around me, pulling me against his chest.
My body fits against his far too easily.
My pulse kicks up in confused panic. Fight or flight or something else entirely.
He steadies me until I find my feet. Then loosens his hold instead of taking advantage. Before walking me out, he picks up the untouched wine glass meant for me. Lifts it in a silent toast, watching me over the rim. Then drinks, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Soon, you’ll drink with me,” he says quietly. “When you stop fighting yourself.”
The double meaning is a knife. He’s talking about the hunger, but I hear the deeper truth.
At the door to my wing, he takes my hand and lifts it before pressing his mouth to my knuckles. My pulse jumps beneath his lips. He feels it this time, impossible not to. Another sharp inhale. His mouth lingers for just a second longer than necessary.
Still no gloating. No comment.
“Thank you for dinner, tesoro.” He releases my hand. “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”
Back in my room, I catch myself in the mirror.
Clean. Fed. Color returning to my cheeks. Dressed in his colors, his choices, his taste. I look like someone who belongs in this world. Not a girl from South Boston with callused hands and a lifetime of proving herself.
Someone that is his.
Worse. At that table, in his lap, some treacherous part of my body wanted his warmth. His steadiness. His hands.
I dig the caliper from under the pillow and clutch it until the metal bites into my palm. Images crash over me. His hands in my hair. His palm on my stomach. My body tightening for all the wrong reasons. The hitch in his breath when he felt me respond. Him hard and tensing beneath me.
You’re disgusting, I think to myself. He kidnapped you. You do not get to want anything from him.
It’s just my body. My body is not me.
I can use this. Let him think I’m softening. Let him think I’m malleable. He wants me to break? Fine. I’ll let him think I’m breaking, while I plan exactly where it’ll hurt him the most.
I fall asleep clutching the caliper.
His soap on my skin. His food in my stomach.
Furious at every cell that responded to him.