15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Larken
I stare right back at Wyatt. “I won't go back. I'd rather die here, if that's what you're insinuating, than go back there.”
Wyatt's mouth turns up as he considers me, then he nods slowly. “That could do it,” he says softly. “Shaun. In the kitchen, in the drawer under the microwave, there is a pair of scissors. Go get them.”
He's going to cut off my finger with a pair of kitchen shears. Maybe a toe. He's going to cut something off and send it to Adrian. While I definitely do not want him to cut any part of me off, I doubly don't want Adrian to have it. “What are you doing?”
“You'll be fine,” he answers. “Get a freezer bag, too.”
Shaun's expression is tight as he gets up to do what Wyatt asked. He's back in less than half a minute with a quart size freezer bag in one hand and the shears in the other. He hands them to Wyatt and sits back down on the couch.
Wyatt picks up the shears and moves toward me. “Stay still.”
I do not stay still. I do the exact opposite of stay still. I start yanking on the cord keeping me attached to the chair. It's just a metal ring! How is it this difficult to pull out?
“What are you doing?” Wyatt asks, his brows furrowed.
“I'm not going to sit here and just let you cut off my finger.” I pull even harder on the cord. The cord, at least, should break but it's barely even stretching. What is this stuff made of?
“Stop it,” Wyatt barks. “You're just going to bruise your wrists.”
“I don't care,” I bark back. “If you want to cut anything off of me, you're going to have to work for it.”
Wyatt presses against his eyebrow and sighs. “I'm not going to cut off any of your fingers. Just be still.”
“No,” I argue. “I will not be still. Criminals are liars and you are a criminal and I'm not going to sit here quietly while you cut off my fingers and toes just to prove to Adrian that you're serious.” I plant my feet on the floor in front of me and try to pull free from that angle. I manage to lift the front of the chair but that's about it.
“A little help.” Wyatt motions to Shaun.
Shaun stretches out his legs underneath the coffee table and reclines against the back of the couch with his hands clasped behind his head. “I wouldn't sit there and let you cut my fingers off, either.”
Wyatt drops the freezer bag onto the coffee table and takes a step closer to me.
“If you get close enough,” I snarl. “I'm going to bite you.”
He sighs again. “Don't tell people what you're going to do, Larken. Don't give them the opportunity to anticipate your attack. Now be still. I'm not going to cut off any fingers or toes. I promise.”
“No,” I hiss, and redouble my efforts.
Wyatt tucks the shears into his back pocket and closes the distance. “Do not bite me,” he orders and pushes me back down into the chair. Then he climbs onto my lap, with his knees on either side of my thighs, and wraps his hand in my hair to keep my head still.
“What are you going to do?” I whisper.
“Make a point.”
He reaches behind him and pulls out the shears. A hundred terrifying thoughts rush through my mind about what part of my face he's about to slice off and I try desperately to shake my head free. His grip tightens to the point that I can't move and I close my eyes, still straining against his hold and his weight even though my muscles are burning and trembling. My pulse is pounding in my ears, making whatever he's saying sound muddy and unclear.
Then my head jerks forward as the pressure on my scalp is suddenly relieved. I crack open one eye to see that Shaun is now sitting forward on the couch with a bemused expression. I open the other eye and look up at Wyatt just as he brings his hand up to look at the fist-full of hair he just chopped off the back of my head.
My mouth drops open.
He raises a brow. “What did you think I was going to do?”
Lots of things. Things that would hurt so much more than cutting off a chunk of hair. Relief flows freely, making my shaking muscles even weaker.
Until I get angry.
“Fix it,” I demand.
“Excuse me?”
“Fix. It.” I grit. “Cut it even. I'm super glad you didn't cut off the end of my nose, but if you're going to cut off a chunk of hair that big, just cut off the rest of it. You could at least even it out.”
“Unbelievable,” Wyatt mutters, but he bends down to release me from the chair. “Go to the kitchen.”
Shaun goes back to his reclined position with a smirk on his face. “Get it nice and even,” he teases Wyatt. “Maybe do some layers. Add some bangs?”
“Shut up,” Wyatt tells him. “And they call it fringe, not bangs.”
“Why am I not surprised you know that?” Shaun asks, his smirk stretching into a smile.
“Shut up,” Wyatt says again, and nudges me. “Move it.”
If anyone had even suggested that I would be sitting in an early-eighties updated kitchen, getting a haircut from someone who kidnaps people for fun and money, I would have laughed and laughed. And yet, that's exactly what I'm doing.
“Look down,” Wyatt orders.
I look down at the floor and listen to the surprisingly soothing sound of the shears slicing through my hair. “Do you even know what you're doing?”
“What's there to know? I can manage a straight line, and that's what you wanted, right? For me to fix it?” He snaps the last two words just like I did when I told him to even my hair.
“Yes,” I murmur. And then because I can't help myself, “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me,” Wyatt says as he snips. “Just hold still.”
I listen to him make small, precise cuts and I do stay very still. Shaun comes in and lays a comb on the table next to us and Wyatt quietly thanks him. No, it definitely wouldn't have occurred to me that I'd be getting a haircut during my abduction. My initial anger is beginning to fade and is being replaced with an odd chain of thoughts.
Maybe I'm glad Wyatt is cutting my hair. Maybe I want to shave the rest of it off. My Dad used to play a song when I was little, an old one that sounded like a show tune. The main lyric was “I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair”. This is kind of like that. It almost feels like Adrian is being cut away from me along with my hair. Kind of like cutting away the dead leaves from a plant to allow for new growth.
“Done,” Wyatt announces and puts the shears on the table. He combs through my much shorter hair one more time before putting the comb down next to the shears.
I reach up to touch what's left of my hair. It barely comes down past my ears. I shake my head back and forth and the difference is astounding. I feel so much lighter.
I might cry.
I can't cry.
I haven't cried this whole time. I can't do it now.
“Can I take a shower?” I ask in a whisper without meeting Wyatt's eyes. “I can shake these clothes out and put them back on after.”
“Sure,” Wyatt says. “I'll find you something to change into.”
He leads me to the bathroom, stopping at the hall closet to get a towel and washcloth. I stand there while he turns on the water and adjusts the temperature. He turns back to me and raises a brow. “The door stays open.”
I'm shocked he's not demanding to stay in the room with me, but he doesn't. I should probably be a little worried about the sudden stillness I feel. It feels, in a way, like a kind of numbness. Quiet. I've had big haircuts before. Haircuts that involved lots of brushes, two kinds of scissors, and lots of money. I've felt disappointed after a cut but never this quiet stillness, and I don't think it has anything to do with how the cut happened.
This is real.
I obviously knew it was real when I spent a few eternities in the trunk on the ride over here, but until I saw my picture, my name and description on TV, the fact that I've actually been abducted wasn't really real . Even when they've had me tied to chairs and bed frames I knew, intellectually, that it was real, it's just that seeing myself on the news made it concrete. Maybe I've been in denial because Wyatt and Shaun haven't really been treating me badly.
They have treated me badly, though.
Haven't they?
Locking me in a quilt chest and handcuffing me to the bed is poor treatment. There's no way around that. Keeping me attached to a chair in the living room is mistreatment. I understand that. But neither of them have been unkind. Not really.
I'm not addressing the involuntary feelings that shot through me when Shaun pulled my hair. Those feelings will never see the light of day.
I miss Reagan. I miss her so much. If the situation were different, I can imagine the conversation we'd be having right now about that hair pulling incident. Reagan would probably love Wyatt. She'd like Shaun, too.
I know she doesn't like Adrian.
What is wrong with me? They kidnapped me. I’ve been kidnapped. They are kidnappers.
I yank my shirt over my head and pull off my bralette and then my pants, pulling my panties with them. I should probably care whether or not one of them is in the hallway watching me undress, but I don't. It should also bother me that I don't care whether or not they see me naked. It doesn't. I'm completely unbothered by a whole list of very bothersome things, and that's what should worry me most of all.
The shower curtain is a faded pink color and it makes a strange, inverted ripping sound when I pull it back to step into the tub. My foot is almost touching the porcelain when I remember Wyatt peed in here and I pull my foot back like the tub is on fire.
“Did you wash the tub out after you peed in here?” I yell in the direction of the hallway.
“Be careful, Larken. Don't fall.” Shaun's reply startles me, causing me to jump. He's just outside the bathroom door, leaning against the frame and facing out into the hall. “I washed the tub.” He turns his head slightly, not quite looking over his shoulder but almost. “And the sink. There's soap in there, but no shampoo. You'll have to make due.”
I swallow and step into the tub, pulling and tucking the shower curtain as close to the shower wall as I can. “I'll manage.”
I step under the hot water pouring from the aged shower head and let the spray cover me. I don't know how long I stand there with the water pelting my face, the top of my head, my shoulders, but when I reach up to start really wetting my hair a wave of dizziness has me slapping against the wall and gripping the shower curtain. It feels so similar to how I felt when I would get dizzy after Adrian would give me my medication or food that it takes my breath away and the only thing that keeps me from collapsing into the tub is my hold on the slick plastic curtain. I do slip, though, and a couple of the rings pop off the rod as I drop a few inches and cry out.
Shaun is there before the sound stops coming out of my mouth. He reaches in around the curtain to grasp me under my arms with dry, solid hands, and I stop falling. “I've got you, baby. You're okay. Catch your breath.”
“I slipped,” I whimper, immediately hating the sound of it but I can't help it.
“I know,” he says. He somehow pushes the curtain to the side and pulls me back against his chest. “Are you alright?”
The drops of water collecting and running in rivulets down his arms suddenly draw my attention and I can't look away from them. I watch them create paths across the bright colors inked into the skin of his forearms and it is so completely fascinating and even more soothing.
“I figured as much,” he says softly. “I was worried about that.”
His words part the fog of dizziness, but I'm not sure what he means. “What? What are you worried about?”
“You said you were dizzy.”
Oh. I didn’t realize I said it out loud.
“You're soft.”
“I'm naked.”
“Mmm,” he purrs. “I know.”
Shaun doesn't say anything else. He doesn't ask me any questions. His silence isn't uncomfortable. It's soothing. His whole presence right now is soothing and I don't think I can process that. I certainly can't tell him how good it feels for someone to hold me up instead of holding me down. He might understand, but I can't have that conversation.
Because I'm naked.
And wet.
And because he kidnapped me and you can't tell your kidnapper how good it feels to have their arms around you.
What is wrong with me?
Jesus and all the Saints.
“I'm okay now.” I tell him, lifting my weight away from him as much as I can with him still holding me.
He hesitates for a moment but slowly lets go, giving me plenty of time to reclaim and maintain my balance. “Better hurry. The water will get cold.”
He's right, even though I'm pretty sure that the hot water may be what made me dizzy in the first place. I nod and step back into the water, reaching behind me to shut the shower curtain. I close my eyes and lean my head back under the spray to re-wet my hair but they pop right back open when the curtain pulls open again. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Making sure you don't fall.”
“You can't watch me shower,” I argue. “You–”
“Oh,” he smirks, “I'm watching. I can't wait to see you reach for that bottle of soap.”
I scowl at him and look around the ledge of the tub for said soap. Of course it's behind me, meaning I'll have to turn around and bend over to get it. “You could get it for me. So I wouldn’t have to twist around and bend. Just in case I get dizzy again.”
“I'll do you one better, baby.”
My mouth drops open as he pulls his damp shirt over his head and strips off his jeans. Then I make a sort of shocked squawking sound as he steps into the shower with me, still wearing his very orange boxers. “What are you doing?”
“Can't let you fall, can I?” he laughs and reaches around me for the bottle of soap. “Tilt your head back.”
How did we get here? How is this my life? In the matter of a few days I've gone from a hostage situation where I was being drugged and forced to sign my life away, to a kidnapping situation where I'm naked in the shower with the man who kidnapped me washing my hair. In case I get dizzy, can't forget that part. What am I supposed to do right now? Shove him out? Then I really will fall and probably hurt both of us in the process. And why shouldn't I want to shove him out? I should shove him out. I have no business just letting him do this. Do I?
“Close your eyes.”
I do as I'm told. Sighing my resignation, I tip my head back and close my eyes so Shaun can better reach my hair. The bottle clicks open and a clean, sweet scent mixes with the warm steam. Then I sigh in pleasure as his fingers sink into my hair and begin massaging my scalp.
Washing my hair turns into washing my neck, which turns into Shaun spreading soap across my shoulders as his fingers dig into muscles I didn't realize were so sore. Warm relaxation spreads from my shoulders down to my spine and when his hands come forward to spread over my ribs, my breath leaves me in a long sigh. I haven't been touched in a long time. Not like this. Not for months. I can't help having such a strong reaction to the feel of his hands sliding across my skin.
“Feel good?” Shaun asks.
I nod, letting a groan escape as his thumbs glide on either side of my rib cage. It feels so good. It shouldn't though. It should feel terrifying. It should feel like an assault and I should tell him to stop. I should be screaming. But it feels so good to be touched, and he isn't hurting me.
“Dizzy?”
I shake my head. I'm not dizzy. I'm overwhelmed. And I don't want this to stop, even if I should. Shaun slides his palms up my sides until his fingertips are grazing the undersides of my breasts and I sigh again. “Keep going.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I let my head drop back against his shoulder and lean against his chest. Despite the hot temperature of the water, his skin is warm against mine. It doesn't matter. This situation is temporary. He can touch me and it doesn't have to mean anything. I am allowed to enjoy the way his hands feel moving higher without it meaning anything. I can shiver in anticipation as he stretches fingers, spreading them out across my breasts but not quite brushing my nipples.
“Careful,” he breathes against my ear. “You might make me think you like this.”
That's okay. Everything about this situation is so wrong and so right. I can give myself permission to like this, even if it's only for right now. “I do like it. It feels so good,” I groan, then gasp when he captures my nipples between his fingertips.
It's been so long since I've been touched like this. Did Adrian ever touch me like this? I remember enjoying his attention before everything changed. I know I wanted him. I had to, right? But I don't remember Adrian ever doing anything to make me ache like this. I don't remember ever feeling this desperate for more of his touch.
Shaun gently rolls my nipples and I let out a quiet moan. My hips move almost involuntarily against his body and he growls against my neck. “I knew you'd be like this. Soft. Needy.”
I arch my back, pressing my breasts into his hands. “It shouldn't feel this good.” I rasp.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Wyatt's harsh demand makes me jump as he rips the shower curtain open, but Shaun doesn't stop touching me. If anything, Shaun's grip tightens, forcing another gasp from me as I slowly blink my eyes open.
“I'm helping Larken wash her hair,” Shaun says, slipping his fingers across my nipples.
Wyatt blinks at him, never moving his stare from Shaun’s face.
“She got dizzy and it was a,” Shaun stops to chuckle, “slippery slope. You want to get in with us? You can do the front and I'll do the back.”
Wyatt presses his fingertips against his eyebrow until the nails turn white from the pressure. “We're not doing anything to her. Get out.”
“No,” Shaun deadpans, and starts to slide one hand down my stomach. “She likes it.”
“I don't give a fuck if she likes it or not. I don't like it.”
“And I don't give a fuck what you don't like. She does.” Shaun emphasizes his declaration by pinching the nipple of the breast he's still firmly gripping, making me gasp yet again.
Wyatt's displeasure is palpable and his irritation is visible. “Stop now, Shaun.”
“No,” he says, running his lips against my still arched neck.
“This isn't part of the job, Shaun.”
“This isn't a job anymore, Wyatt.”
Wyatt reaches to grab at Shaun's wrist where it's paused over my belly button and Shaun snarls at him. “Don't touch me, Wyatt. Not even a little bit.” Then he goes back to speaking with his lips against my skin. “You don't have to be jealous. There's room in here for you.”
Wyatt's eyes widen then quickly narrow. “This is ridiculous.”
“I agree,” Shaun laughs.
“The water's getting cool,” I interrupt quietly. “And I still have soap on me.”
That stops their little argument and Shaun wraps his arms around me fully. “Now look at what you've done. She was dizzy and now you're going to give her pneumonia because you stopped a perfectly good shower to try to prove something,” he tuts. “Fix the temperature so I don't have to let her go. We don't need her slipping in the tub, now, do we?”
Wyatt rolls his head from one shoulder to the other. “Fine,” he clips, then reaches down to adjust the knobs until the water goes back to being nice and hot. “Better?”
I nod.
“Good,” he says, straightening. “Hurry up and get her out. She got dizzy because she's still on an intense calorie deficit. I'll reheat lunch. I put some clothes on the sink. Don't let her fall on the floor when you help her out.”
He turns for the door, but stops to add another order. “Do not fuck her, Shaun. I mean it. This isn't that kind of job.” Then he walks out of the room.
“It stopped being a job when we pulled her out of the trunk,” Shaun calls after him. “Alright,” he says to me. “Not that that wasn't just delicious, but that asshole is right. You need to eat lunch more than you need me to give you a thorough shower massage. Let's get you rinsed off.”
I let him do the work of rinsing the soap from my shortened hair and I let him rub and scrub almost every inch of my skin while he keeps a firm grip on my arm or waist. It's efficient. Clinical. Nothing like the way he was touching me earlier, and the loss of that warm ache is staggering.
“You can wash your bits and pieces on your own,” Shaun says. “I won't even watch.”
He's a liar. He does watch. But he doesn't offer to help, so I guess that's his version of being a gentleman.
“What did you mean?” I ask as he's helping me towel off after we get out of the shower.
“About?”
“Before, when you said this isn't a job anymore.”
He's quiet for a minute and doesn't answer until I have a shirt on and he's holding out a pair of men's sweatpants for me to step into. “You. This. It's different. It has been from the start. I don't know what's going to happen, but it's not the job we were hired to do anymore.”