Chapter 15 — Velvet Chains #2
He shifted, sitting on the edge of the tub, and pulled her head to his chest (even though it got him wet). He let her soak his skin with her tears and mucus. He stroked her hair, over and over, murmuring low, meaningless words—the sounds of comfort you make to calm a frightened animal.
“Shhh. I've got you. Let it out. Everything. I can take it.”
The crying lasted minutes, or hours. In the sanctuary of the bathroom, time didn't exist. There was only the sound of the water, the sound of Maya's sobs slowly fading, and the sound of Ethan's heart beating strong and steady against her ear.
When the storm passed, Maya pulled away, embarrassed. Her face was swollen, her eyes burned. She must look horrible.
But Ethan looked at her as if she were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
“Better?” he asked.
Maya nodded, sniffling.
“I got you all wet,” she said, pointing to his chest, damp with tears.
“You baptized me,” he corrected with a half-smile.
He picked up a bottle of shampoo.
“Turn around. I’m going to wash your hair.”
Maya obeyed. Her compliance didn’t stem from fear this time, but from deep exhaustion and a newly discovered trust that terrified her.
She felt his fingers on her scalp. He massaged firmly but without causing pain. The fragrant lather enveloped her head. It was hypnotic—such a humble act of service from such a powerful man that it left her emotionally dizzy.
“Ethan,” she called, her voice hoarse.
“Hmm?”
“What happens when the six months are over?”
His hands paused for a second, then continued their rhythmic movement.
“Why are you thinking about the end when we’ve just begun?”
“Because I need to know,” she insisted. “I need to know if this... if this care... is just part of the premium six-month package. If you’re going to toss me aside and find another ‘pretty thing’ to polish once I lose my novelty.”
Ethan rinsed her hair, using a silver pitcher to pour warm water over her head, shielding her eyes with his hand so the soap wouldn’t get in.
When the soap was gone, he turned her around again to face him.
His expression was serious. Grave.
“Do you think I do this with just anyone?” he asked. “Do you think I bring women to this bathroom, wash their hair, and let them cry on my chest?”
“I don’t know,” Maya whispered. “You’re a mystery. You’re a contract.”
“The contract”—Ethan said the word with disdain—“was a tool. A necessary crowbar to break down the door of your life, because you were locked inside with an idiot. I had to be brutal to get you out of there.”
He took her hand and placed it over his own heart, on the bare, damp skin.
“But now that you’re here...” He looked into her eyes, and the intensity made Maya hold her breath. “...I have no intention of letting you go.”
“But the deadline...” she stammered. “One hundred and eighty days.”
“Deadlines are for business. Deadlines are for loans.” He moved closer, his nose brushing hers. “What’s mine is mine. I don’t rent, Maya. I own. And I keep.”
“You mean... forever?”
The word “forever” hung in the steam, heavy and frightening.
“I mean as long as you keep shining like that when I touch you,” he answered enigmatically. “And I have a feeling you’re going to shine for a very long time.”
He shifted his gaze to her body beneath the water. The transparency let him see everything.
He reached into the water and touched her hip. A purple bruise was blooming on the pale skin, the distinct shape of a thumb. A reminder of how hard he’d gripped her during orgasm.
Maya looked at the mark. It was ugly. It was violence.
But Ethan looked at it with reverence.
He leaned over the bathtub. He lowered his head to the water. And he kissed the purple bruise.
His lips against the bruised, wet skin sent a shock through Maya. It didn’t hurt. It felt like a blessing. A signature.
“I’m sorry for the pain,” he whispered against her skin. “But I’m not sorry for the mark. It proves I was there. It proves you felt.”
He raised his head.
“It’s time to get out. The water’s getting cold.”
He stood and grabbed an enormous, soft white towel from the towel warmer. He opened it, waiting.
Maya stood. The water streamed off her body, carrying away the sweat and oil but leaving the marks, visible and invisible. She stepped out of the bathtub and into the embrace of the towel.
Ethan wrapped her up. He rubbed her vigorously, drying her, then wrapped her in a white piqué robe, tying the belt carefully.
He held her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes.
“You’re clean,” he declared. “You’re new. The Maya who walked into the casino died. The Maya who cried over Kyle died. Who’s here now... is mine.”
Maya looked at him. She should fight against this. Should say she belonged to herself.
But the truth—the horrible, sweet, undeniable truth of the Syndrome that wrapped around her like those velvet chains—was that she felt safe. For the first time in years, she didn’t need to carry the world on her back. He was carrying it for her.
“Yours,” she whispered, testing the word.
Ethan smiled. It was a smile of triumph, but also of promise.
“Tomorrow night,” he said, caressing her face, which was flushed from the heat of the bath. “There’s a charity gala. All of Vegas’s elite will be there. The press. My competitors.”
He paused, letting the implication settle.
“I’m taking you.”
Maya’s eyes widened.
“Taking me? As what?”
“As my companion. As my partner.” He kissed her forehead again. “The world needs to see, Maya. They need to see who you are. And more importantly… they need to see who you belong to. No one touches what belongs to Ethan Vance. And tomorrow, I’m going to make that clear to the entire city.”
He picked her up again, ignoring her weak protest that she could walk.
“Let’s sleep,” he said, carrying her back to the dark bed. “You’re going to need your energy. Being the queen beside the monster is exhausting work.”
And as he laid her down on the satin sheets and nestled behind her, wrapping his large, warm body around her like a protective shell, Maya closed her eyes and realized that the chains didn’t bind her; they held her. And, God help her, she didn’t want him to let go.