Chapter 13
Grace
I feel a little better once the bathtub is filled to the brim, providing a safe and comfortable space for me to hide. I don’t know how much time has passed since he dragged me out of the water and into this house, but I have been naked the entire time, defenseless and as vulnerable as one can be.
Now, I’m not. I have the water to protect me.
But he’s still here, tenderly moving a soaked sponge across my back, while I’m curled up in the tub, my arms wrapped around my folded legs. Neither of us has spoken for the past few minutes, but the silence between us is not uncomfortable.
I relish this quiet serenity, no matter how wrong it may be, even allowing myself to close my eyes as he continues to clean me. He hasn’t really touched me ever since I got into the tub, not skin to skin at least. I don’t know whether it’s intentional or not, but I never felt his fingers on my skin while he was cleaning me, just the textured surface of the large sponge he’s using. It could be deliberate, just another way of manipulating me, making me feel safe...
But I won’t be fooled that easily. I know exactly what he’s doing, and I will not fall for it.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs next to me, his mouth so close to my ears that I can feel his hot breath at my temple. “Such a strong, beautiful girl.”
Strong. He keeps calling me strong.
No one has ever called me strong before. On the contrary, they called me weak, a credibility and a burden. To my family, I was all of the above, which is why they not only tried to protect me from any harm, but also got rid of me as soon as they could afford to do so. They never saw any strength in me, no one ever did. I was a basket case, a poor little victim who had to be hidden away and taken care of.
And I believed them.
But why is it so hard for me to believe him? And why would he even call me strong?
Because he’s manipulating you, stupid girl.
Of course, he is. He’s playing a sick game, and being nice to me is just a part of it.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
The question leaves my lips despite myself. I know he won’t deign me with a proper answer. Still, I find myself disappointed when he replies.
“I’m cleaning you, because it’s needed,” he says. “And because you deserve it.”
“For being so strong?” I ask in a mocking tone.
“That’s correct.”
He wrings the sponge above my head, forcing me to close my eyes to shield them from the soapy waterfall that rinses down my face.
The ward would never allow for any of this to happen. By now I’m pretty convinced that this has nothing to do with my therapy. That still doesn’t explain what he was doing at the ward to begin with, though. How did he even gain access if he’s not working with them? Even visitors are only allowed on special occasions. He was lying when he said he was there to visit me, that much I know. They would have told me, because they have to.
But if he’s not with them, then this must have something to do with my brothers’ shady business. He seemed genuinely surprised and confused when I mentioned them, but that could have been an act. He’s a psychopath, after all. They’re the most deceitful people on the planet.
He’s shampooing my hair now, giving me a weirdly thorough head massage while doing so. It’s the first time he’s actually touching me with his hands, but it happens in a way that is so innocuous that I’m lulled into relaxation.
“What will happen after this?” I want to know. “Will you bring me back to that room?”
“No,” he replies, without stopping his massage.
When he refuses to elaborate on his response, I probe further. “Will you let me go?”
He chuckles. “No. We’re only getting started here, Grace.”
I roll my eyes, frustrated with his vague statements.
“So, what will happen then?” I implore. “Why can’t you just tell me what you’re doing with me?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
I jerk up in surprise when he holds the showerhead over my head and my unspoken questions are drowned under another gust of warm water running down over my face. He rinses the shampoo out of my hair, before he tells me to stand up, which I do reluctantly. I’ve never felt more naked and more vulnerable as I stand in the middle of the tub, the warm water reaching up to my knees while he rinses the soap off of my body, thankfully still keeping his fingers to himself the whole time.
I make sure to avoid eye contact and decide to use this chance to take notice of the bathroom we’re in. It’s a rather large room, white marble tiles everywhere, golden fixtures on the drop-in sink and the old-fashioned bathtub, and a wooden vanity to my left, placed next to a second door that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s perfectly clean and seems unused, with no personal items or any kind of decoration, just a few neatly folded towels and a white bathrobe hanging on the second door, which is on the wall to my left.
Just as my eyes latch on to the robe, he stops the water and turns around to fetch the robe from the hanger. I can’t believe my eyes when he holds it up for me to slip into it, throwing him a puzzled look for a reassurance.
“Go on, I don’t want you to get cold,” he encourages me, lending weight to his invitation by lifting the robe a little higher.
I follow his demand and welcome the warm comfort of the soft fabric as he wraps it around my shoulders.
“It’s a little big on you, but it’ll do,” he comments, as I step out of the tub and onto the warm tiles.
I close the robe in front of me, tightly securing it with the belt, as if to protect myself against further invasions from him. And it works. After having been naked for so long, the robe does indeed feel like armor, giving me a new sense of strength.
But my moment of relief is cut short, when he closes his hand around my wrist, holding me in a possessive grip that leaves no room for the illusion of freedom.
“Come with me.”
“As if I have any other choice,” I remark as he turns around, pulling me with him.
“Don’t get cocky with me,” he warns, and my heart erupts in a nervous hiccup when he walks toward the mysterious second door to our left.
He opens it and takes a step back, beckoning me to walk through before him with a soft push against the small of my back. I hesitate, filled with another surge of fear, before I take a cautious step forward, then another—and my eyes widen in awe as I enter the room that lies behind the door.
It’s a bedroom, just like I expected—but the sight of it still makes me gawk in awe. If I had to put a name to it, I’d call it a Hamptons style room, with neutral-colored walls, two large windows to my left, both shielded with shutters from the outside and framed with silky curtains in a light gray tone. A king-size bed enthroned against the wall opposite to us, with crisp white bedding, accentuated with gray cushions that match the curtains—and a dripping chandelier floating right above the bed. Wooden furniture, two nightstands, a dresser and a small, round table with two matching chairs underneath one of the windows. All pieces, down to the frame of the bed, share the same ivory white color. The room would seem sterile, if it weren’t for the wooden floors, and the sky blue chair cushions and the matching rug next to the bed.
“You’ll stay here from now on,” he announces, as he leads me toward the bed.
“For how long?” I ask.
Of course, he ignores my question, pointing to the bed as he orders: “Sit.”
I do as I’m told, eying the door as I slowly sink down on the edge of the mattress.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns, placing himself between me and the door. “You wouldn’t get far anyway.”
I choose not to respond to that, and turn away, lowering my head in a motion that could be seen as demure. I’m not scared, not right now, but it’s good if he thinks I am.
He opens the drawer in the night stand next to me and produces something that looks like a dog collar from it. Before I can ask what it is and what he intends to do with it, he leans forward and makes a move to close it around my neck, but I flinch away.
“Stay!” he barks, placing one hand at the back of my head to keep me in place. “Move, and you’ll regret it.”
I’m too exhausted and sore from the agony he inflicted before, so I don’t put up a fight when he closes the leather collar around my neck. The clasp at the back appears to be secured with a lock, the key to which he keeps for himself, pointedly shoving it in the pocket of his shirt.
I reach up to my throat, fiddling with the metal ring that’s attached at the front, while I watch him reach inside the drawer again, producing something that looks like a very long belt to me, before I realize that it is a leash.
He moves my hand aside and attaches it around the metal ring. I hear a loud clicking sound, instantly realizing that I won’t be able to remove it on my own. He wraps the other end at the bed post to my left, using another key to secure it, before he takes a step back to examine his work.
“Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to move around,” he assures, adding a wide gesture toward the bathroom door. “All the way into the bathroom.”
“How about that door?” I ask, pointing to the main door at the wall to my left.
He chuckles. “Sure. But that door is locked.”
“Of course, it is,” I sigh, turning around to face the shielded windows behind my back. “And those?”
“You can enjoy the view in the morning,” he lets me know. “Now, get some rest and-”
“You keep saying that,” I interrupt him, raising my chin defiantly as I look up to him. “Get some rest. Don’t you realize how ridiculous this sounds?”
He arches an eyebrow at me, and I’m flushed with a short but intense crest of fear.
“You’ll eat something now,” he decides. “I don’t care if I have to shove it down your throat, but you will eat.”
There’s no point in objecting, so I just cast him a sour look providing nothing but a shrug as a response. He doesn’t seem happy, but says nothing about it, and I watch in silence as he turns around on the spot and marches out the door in wide steps.