Chapter 4 #2
I wrap my hand around my cock and give it a stroke. I don’t even care that he’s watching me. I know he is. In fact, it kind of makes me hotter. I can feel his eyes on my back as I buck into my fist and let out an obscene moan.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is still infuriatingly unfazed.
Does he have to always be in control of every-fucking-thing?
“I always bust a nut in the shower,” I say without an ounce of shame. “You going to ruin my ritual?”
“Cason.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name, and he says it like a warning. Had he used the name I prefer, in his stern, deep voice, it might’ve encouraged me to keep going. However, it does the opposite, and my dick starts to soften in my hand. So I let go.
“Don’t call me that,” I say as I pump soap out of the dispenser attached to the wall, wishing I was pumping cum out of my cock instead.
“Oh. Did I finally find a nerve? Not all brat, huh?”
For the first time in a week, there’s proof he’s actually capable of being amused. Unfortunately, it always seems to be at my expense.
“Shut up,” I grumble.
“That’s your name, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t I call you that?”
I spin around to fully face him, staring at him through the glass.
There are suds across the front of my body but not nearly enough to cover my cock.
Not that I care. The hard set of his jaw makes it clear that it takes a conscious effort for him to not look, and that is satisfying in its own kind of way.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Our gazes remain locked with no other words spoken for so long that I start washing myself again, lathering the soap over my skin.
I don’t break eye contact as I brush one hand over my chest, rubbing the suds around my nipples while my other hand scrubs the soap across my stomach, slowly traveling lower.
It feels as though there’s a challenge between us, but I have no idea which one of us is challenging the other.
The moment my fingertips brush the root of my cock, his eyes dips down.
I freeze.
When his gaze meets mine again, there’s a tiny grin curling one corner of his lips.
For some reason, it doesn’t feel like I won.
Finally, he says one word.
“Reese.”
Did he actually just give me something? Finally. At least one fucking answer.
Is it his real name? Probably not. It wouldn’t surprise me if he gave me a fake one, but at least I have something to call him now.
When I haven’t responded, he arches a brow. “I believe it’s your turn.”
“I’m showing you a lot more than you are me,” I mumble, turning around again.
I may be a brat sometimes, but I keep my promises. I just can’t tell him this while facing him.
Getting more soap from the dispenser, I start lathering up my back and ass. I have no idea when I’m going to be allowed to shower again, so I have to make sure I’m very clean. At least, that’s my excuse for when I run my fingers up and down my crease, paying a little special attention to my hole.
I wonder how much he can see.
He clears his throat.
Yeah, he was definitely looking.
I continue washing my body—innocently this time, honest—while I keep my end of the deal.
“My parents have always called me Case, but…my dad used Cason when I was in trouble. So whenever someone calls me that, it just reminds me of all those times he was angry. When…when it felt like he hated me.”
“Did he?” Reese asks as though he’s genuinely interested. “Hate you?”
“Nah. It felt like it though. Or maybe that’s just what I told myself so I wouldn’t fuck up again.”
“So you’ve always been a menace then?”
I snort and peer at him over my shoulder. “Oh, absolutely. I came out of the womb arguing with the doctor about his bedside manner.”
One corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it.
Hey, he’s finally laughing with me instead of at me.
Kind of.
I’ll take what I can get.
My grin fades, and I let loose a sigh as I start rinsing soap from my arms. “I didn’t always mean to be a menace. I was…misunderstood. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Sure. A menace breaks things on purpose. I just break expectations.” I shrug. “And occasionally furniture.”
He huffs softly through his nose. It’s a ghost of a laugh, but it was a laugh.
I turn off the water after I’ve made sure all the suds have swirled down the drain. The air suddenly feels colder without the steam. I’m not used to feeling vulnerable, but right now, I feel naked inside and out.
I step out of the shower, and Reese is already holding a towel. Gray. Of course it’s gray. God forbid we introduce a pop of color into his Murder Basement.
He doesn’t step closer than necessary, just extends it toward me. I take it from him and dry off quickly. No theatrics, no porn-worthy entertainment, no forcing him to look. Just the quiet efficiency of someone who knows the performance part is over.
When I’m finished, he hands me a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, both of them clean, soft, and…surprise! Gray.
I step into the sweats and pull them up to my waist. They’re a little big, but not by much.
“So reclaim it.”
He says it while I’m in the process of putting the shirt on. I pop my head out of the neckhole to find him staring at me again.
Not sure if I heard him correctly, I ask, “What?”
“Your name. Reclaim it. Let someone else call you by your whole first name and replace those bad memories of your dad.”
I wish I was as skilled as him at schooling my expression and hiding my emotions because I’m pretty sure the shock from this turn of conversation is written all over my face.
“Abductor and therapist now? Boy, did I hit the jackpot.”
“It’s just a suggestion,” he says dismissively. “Take it or don’t.”
I frown, entirely unsure what to make of this.
“There’s one problem with that.” I peer around the basement to emphasize my point. “You’re kind of the only one around, and this is practically the first time you’ve spoken to me in a week. Now if you want to give me an idea of when I’ll be getting out of here—”
I guess my mouth runs a little too much for his liking.
He grabs me by the back of the neck. Again.
This time, I squirm, trying to fight him off. I reach up and dig my nails into his tattooed forearm, but his fucking death grip doesn’t ease, not until he’s dragged me back to the open door of my cell and shoves me inside.
“I already gave you one answer too many,” he says as he grabs the door to close it.
“Wait!” I swallow hard as his gaze meets mine. My chest shudders on an inhale meant to steady me. “I’ve never told anyone that before. About my dad.”
His hand stills on the door. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. His expression remains carved from stone, eyes fixed on mine.
“Could I stay out there?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. “I didn’t see any other exits besides that locked door. I’m not going to try anything, I swear.” I pause. Swallow again. “I’m going fucking crazy in this room.”
Silence stretches between us. Heavy.
“Please, Reese.”
For a fraction of a second, something shifts in his eyes. It’s not softness, not quite, but something I dare to hope looks dangerously close to consideration.
Then it vanishes.
As he shuts the door, I hold his gaze until it’s gone, like maybe I can will him into changing his mind.
He doesn’t.
The lock seals with a breath of air.
And just like that, I’m back to four walls, a bed, and the sound of my own breathing as the only proof that I’m still here.