Chapter Eighteen
Amirah
Zion releases my thighs, and I scramble backward on the bed. He points toward the bathroom.
“If you aren’t in there in one minute, I’m throwing you over my shoulder and taking you,” he says with a deep growl, and I believe him.
I release a loud sigh before pushing off the bed and walking into the adjoining bathroom, my fists bunched at my sides.
I’m so sick of these four walls and being held against my will.
I want to go home. To be in my own bed and see my best friend.
I feel like I’m wasting my life away here, when I could be out there living.
Saving lives. Hell, I could be drinking fucking champagne and eating pasta instead of staring at the unenticing food Bear brings in.
Nothing like that burger from Daniel’s he brought on my second day here. That was yum.
Bracing my hands on the vanity, I stare at my reflection. My hair is a greasy mess, slicked back into a ponytail. My cheeks are hollowing in, and my eyes a darker shade of green than usual. I don’t even recognize myself.
I’ve given up, and that pisses me off. I need to get my strength back, to fight back.
I have to play this smart. Smarter than before.
I need to gain their trust and then escape once they let their guard down.
I tried running before and didn’t get far.
They were ready, but they won’t be when the walls between us lower and they become more relaxed around me.
It’s clear they’re not going to kill me, or they would have done it already.
So I’m here for the long haul—which means I stand a chance. I can fight back.
Zion unzips his backpack, pulling out a hairbrush and some little packs of skincare products, placing them on the vanity. “I thought you’d need these,” he says, and my heartbeat increases. I’ve never been so happy to receive beauty products.
Heat presses behind me as Zion reaches around me, his chest brushing against my back. Shivers sprinkle over my arms. Why do I keep getting so turned on by my captors? Is it Stockholm syndrome?
He opens the cabinet and pulls out bottles of shampoo and conditioner, then leaves them on the vanity.
“Get in the shower,” he says, his breath hot against my neck. I watch him in the mirror, so close to me. His body feels hot, or maybe it’s mine—I don’t know. Shit.
“You need to leave,” I say, and he shakes his head.
“I want to make sure you actually do it,” he says, and my breathing becomes heavier.
“Why do you care so much whether I shower or not?”
“Because, believe it or not, I’m not a monster,” he says and I scoff.
“But you’re literally holding me against my will,” I snap, and a pained look crosses his eyes.
“Not my choice. But if my daughter was in your situation, I’d want her captors to allow her human decencies,” he says and I swallow hard. Why does he make that sound so fucking hot? Damn it.
“Where is your daughter?” I ask, and Zion’s eyes bore into me like he’s seeing right through me. My hands shake and I want to take it back.
When Kai mentioned her and Zion’s face fell, I knew I wasn’t meant to know about her.
Is she in trouble? What happened to her?
Why is she over on my side of the tracks?
Does anyone else know? Can I help? Is he still with the mother?
Oh God. I shouldn’t be showering in front of him if that’s the case.
“She’s not your concern. Just know that I would never allow anything like this to happen to her,” he says.
His eyes connect with mine, the dark blue turning a shade lighter.
His curly, dirty-blond hair is sitting just above his shoulders.
I fight off the urge to reach out and tuck the strands behind his ear.
If our situation was different, and I didn’t hate him, I’d admit he was hot.
Tattoos peek out from the sleeves of his black hoodie but not enough for me to see in detail.
There’s this energy around him that draws me in.
I want to know more about him, to open him up and see everything he’s been through.
What damage lies beneath the surface. The darkness in his eyes tells me he’s suffered so much in his life already.
I crave to find out what, but that’s the last of my concerns.
I have to remember I’m here against my will. I’m his prisoner.
His arm snakes around my stomach and my legs feel weak.
What is he doing? He pulls me backward, and I can’t fight him.
I have no energy left. He turns me around to face him.
His fingers move under the hoodie Bear gave me, and my skin burns everywhere he touches.
I need to cool down. I need to move away, but I’m rooted to the spot.
My head is screaming at me to run, to push him away, but my body won’t move.
He pushes my hoodie up, and I raise my arms without thinking twice. He pulls it off and throws it into the corner of the small bathroom. His gaze doesn’t move from mine. He removes my T-shirt, leaving me in my bra and sweatpants. Is he going to take advantage of me? Abuse me without my permission?
Zion’s throat bobs and he clears his throat. “You capable of undressing yourself now?” he asks and I open, then close my mouth, unable to form the words. It’s as though I’m not even in this room or have any control over myself. I shake my head, and Zion’s cheeks turn a shade of pink.
He twirls his finger, and I turn, facing the mirror once again.
He moves closer, the warmth of his body hot against my skin.
His fingers run down my back, and it’s been so long since someone has touched me like this.
Gage has scared away all the men I’ve been with.
Goosebumps rise and my legs feel heavy. I grip on to the vanity for support.
I can’t look at him, afraid that if I do, I’ll do something I regret.
It’s like I’m watching this unfold from above.
I feel faint, all the energy deflated from my body.
I can’t remember the last time I ate or drank.
That’s why he’s having this effect on me—because I can’t think straight.
I’m at his mercy. I want to fight back, to tell him to fuck off, but I can’t.
His fingers run underneath my bra and he unclips it.
The straps slide down my arms, my nipples hardening from the coolness in the air.
I peer into the mirror, and fuck, I wish I hadn’t.
Zion catches my gaze, his blue eyes dark, before he lowers them over my body and I almost break.
I’m exposed, and even though I should, I don’t want to cover up.
The way his eyes take in every curve, there’s no judgment.
Only lust. Appreciation. Adoration. I feel seen.
His chest rises and falls against my back, his breath hot against my neck.
All too soon, it’s gone. He steps away, running a hand through his long hair.
He points toward the shower, and it takes me a second to get my shit together.
When he turns around, I push back from the vanity, letting my bra fall to the ground, then I tug my pants and underwear off.
I turn the shower on and wait a minute before the hot steam fills the air. I don’t dare glance behind me, afraid of what I’ll see. Still, I do, but I’m confused by the disappointment in his gaze. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I should be afraid of what he can do to me, but I’m not.
I step into the warm water, letting it wash away every thought. The pressure isn’t strong, not like at home, but it still feels good to get clean.
There’s a bang, and I jump, moving back against the shower wall. A door shuts, then Zion’s silhouette is there, just outside the glass door of the shower.
He opens the door, passing me some products. He averts his gaze, and I take a deep breath. I need him on my side. There’s no question that he feels this attraction between us. I need to use that to my advantage, build some trust between us, if I’m going to make it out of here alive.
“How did you end up with a daughter over on my side of the tracks?” I ask, and I’m met with silence for several long breaths. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.
“It’s a long story,” Zion says through the glass between us.
I don’t want to push him. I asked, and he doesn’t want to answer. Pumping out some of the milk-and-honey body wash onto my palm, I rub it over my arms and legs. The smell reminds me of home. It feels good. A little comforting.
“Would you . . . would you wash my hair?” I ask, pushing open the door. He frowns, his eyes catching mine, and I swallow hard. “I’m too weak to do it myself.” It’s the truth. I don’t have the energy.
He remains silent, and just as I think he’s going to leave, he removes his hoodie and T-shirt.
A massive tiger sits on his chest with roses and other pieces surrounding it.
More ink runs over both his arms, and fuck, he’s a work of art.
His chest is pure muscle, and I want to run my fingers over each curve.
His pants remain on, and I hate that I’m disappointed.
When he clears his throat, my cheeks flame hot. I move back under the water until my body is the same temperature as my face.
“Come here,” he says in a deep voice. I step closer until I’m within arm’s reach.
He puts some product in his hand before massaging it into my scalp.
Slow circles, deep ones, that relax every muscle in not just my head, but my body.
I feel . . . treasured. Cared for. There’s something deeply intimate about the act.
My muscles relax, and for one moment, one brief moment, it’s like I’m somewhere else, someone else.
“Lauren, Cleo’s mother, and I were together since we were seventeen. She was the first person I loved,” Zion says, and I don’t utter a word.
He nudges my shoulder, and I step back under the water. Running my fingers through my hair, I wash out the shampoo.
“She got pregnant at twenty-one. We didn’t plan it, but it changed everything for us. She was working at a club when we found out.”
I look at him over my shoulder. His hands start to shake at his sides, and there’s a faraway expression in his gaze.
What club? I want to ask, but I can’t interrupt him. This is his story, and I’m guessing it’s not easy for him to tell.
“She wanted to keep the baby, but we were living in a trailer. There were fights all the time, and the drugs . . . my mom was into it bad. I didn’t want my kid growing up like that.
One of the guys at the club, I knew he was into Lauren.
So I told her to try to seduce him. Let him believe the kid was his.
That way, they could have a better life. ”
“You gave up the woman you loved . . . to save her life?” I ask, holding back the tears.
“I gave up two women I loved.” Zion sniffs. “Lauren let me sneak over the tracks to see Cleo a lot—like every week or so. Cleo thinks I’m her mom’s brother. I think Lauren convinced Callan I was an imaginary friend.” His eyes glisten over, and I want to take all the pain away.
I pull him into the shower. He kicks one of the bottles of shampoo, and it rolls along the floor. My arms wrap around his waist. My head is resting on his chest. His heart is ringing in my ear. He stiffens before melting into my body, his jeans now soaking wet.
“She died in the explosion,” Zion whispers, and I freeze.
I can’t breathe. Everything closes in around me. I rip myself out of his embrace, stumbling back until my back hits the tiles.
He looks at me and my whole world crumbles. Tears run down his face, blending in with the stream of the shower.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, like that will help, but I know better. Words won’t heal this. The wounds must still be so fresh. They haven’t been together for years, but she’s still the mother of his kid.
We stay like this for seconds, minutes, staring at each other. Time vanishes. Disappears around us.
“It’s not your fault,” Zion says and steps closer. He leans down, grabbing the conditioner. As he pours product into his hand, I turn around, and he brushes his fingers through my hair.
Then he massages my scalp in slow, dizzying circles I feel everywhere.
I should be comforting him, not the other way around.
My eyes flutter shut. Fuck, this is good.
I don’t think I’ve ever had someone wash my hair for me—well, apart from my hairstylist, but it’s never felt this good before.
Never this . . . sensual. My knees become weak, and I need to hold on to something before I fall to the ground.
I reach out, bracing my hand on the shower screen.
I’m trying to hold it for support, but it’s slippery and wet.
What would it be like if I turned and kissed him?
What would happen then? Fuck. This is wrong, but it feels so right.
I should be fighting him, using this moment of weakness against him, but it’s impossible when it feels this good. I moan and Zion stops.
Damn it. No, that did not just happen.
All too soon, his fingers are gone, and I let out a loud exhale before stepping back under the warmth of the water and letting the waterfall consume me.
I don’t dare open my eyes. I can’t look at him.
Whatever just happened wasn’t supposed to.
I got caught up in the moment. The ache between my legs is evidence of that.
When the loud bang of the bathroom door echoes around me, I open my eyes. He’s gone, and I’m left wanting more, forgetting that maybe, while he was distracted, I could have run. I could have escaped.