Chapter 50
Silently, Reid guides me to Rose’s room. Not a single mention of his thinly veiled warning from the other night. “Due to your impromptu arrival, Rose will be along shortly.”
“Where is she?”
“Mr. Karson is tending to her wounds, and ensuring she is presentable for you.”
“That will not be necessary anymore.”
“Pardon?”
“On days like today, where I wish to wake her myself, Karson isn’t needed.
He may continue to see to her needs when I’m absent, but when I’m on the island, she’s mine to do with as I see fit.
” What’s so hard to understand about my directions?
Stay the fuck away from Rose. I’m thoroughly annoyed I can’t rouse her from sleep by sliding my cock into that addictive fucking pussy.
Or use her touch to chase away the remnants of the night still clinging like tar, threatening to suck me into its sticky pit there’s no escape from.
These idiots need to leave my fucking flower alone. No one had to know I was here except the fuckwit opening the gate.
“Ah, yes, sir. I’ll pass that on to Mr. Smythe.”
“Much appreciated, Reid.”
Together we wait awkwardly outside the door to the blossom room. I’m aware I look like a smitten fucking fool, and maybe that works to my advantage. No one will be suspicious of the lust-struck imbecile with food and bags of shit for his imprisoned lady.
Eager to escape this awkward waiting around, I ask, “May I go in?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
I nod to Reid before turning the knob and stepping into the room. All is still, silent. No evidence of anymore outbursts, except the gouge in the wooden door from the vase she threw against it.
The torment lingering from the hours since I last left this place starts to dissipate. Seemingly just being in Rose’s space is enough to temper my emotions. Though, until I lay eyes on my flower, nothing in me will truly be docile.
While I wait, I make the bed. Only to set the scene I wish her to enter upon. I’m no one’s maid.
Meticulously, I move about the room. Laying the dress I’ve envisioned her in far too many times since our initial meeting out on the chair next to the dresser. It’s flowy, a dark forest green, with a low back to showcase her strength.
Cleaning off the bedside table, I place the fruit platter upon it. Next to it, I set the Prosecco, fresh peach juice, and glasses.
There’s no windows in this room, and it paints an annoyance across my face. I wish to witness the way the sun beams across her skin, setting her autumn flecked eyes ablaze.
Removing my shirt once again, I hang it over the camera to obscure its view. Dimming the lights, I move to the bed. Perching myself upon the edge to await her imminent arrival.
I wait.
And wait.
Checking my watch, then waiting some more.
Irritation and concern war within me as the seconds ascend to minutes.
Where the fuck is she?
Maximus has to know delaying his clients won’t work in his favour. I can only assume something happened.
I told her to behave. Can she not follow the simplest of instructions?
Maybe she’s begging them not to send her back to her room. Pleading for another John because this one likes the sight of her blood on his skin.
I scare her. I know I do.
But she scares me too.
The way I want to chain her up isn’t to hear her scream in agony. I want to see if she likes it.
The masochist to my sadist.
I don’t want to bring her pain she won’t enjoy, and I spent far too long analyzing that on my drive to the port last night.
Sweeping my sight across the room, I conclude I’m a fucking fool.
Doing all this for a woman who could be getting stuffed with cock the second I leave.
She can’t possibly feel anything for me, all she wants is an escape.
She’ll manipulate me, be whatever I want, to get out of here.
The desperation I’ve seen in her eyes makes that fact ring true.
I’m a means to an end for her, just as she is me.
But if it gets me what I want, what does it matter?
Because I want her.
In my home. In my bed. Seated on my cock, with my claiming marks upon her skin.
Standing, I move to the side table. Picking the bag up off the floor, I start to put my purchases inside.
Would all this shit sway her? Initially, I wanted her fed so she would be strong enough to weather whatever storm I drag her through.
But now… Will this pull her to me? When free, will she remember this and stay?
Can I puppeteer her feelings for me the same way I’m sure she’s trying to contort mine?
Not many women willingly like pain with their pleasure, and those that do, don’t usually have the guts to ask for it.
She has to be crafting a persona just for me, based on what she assumes I like.
I know she felt my desire for her, for her screams, that first day.
But all I ache for is her.
Every fucking minute of every goddamned day since I crushed her to me and painted my skin with her blood. She’s infected my fucking mind like a persistent parasite, and I feel it’s only fair to return the favour.
As if in a trance, the plan reconfigures in my mind. Formulating how to get everything I want while absentmindedly staring at the wall, peach juice half way to the bag while I’m frozen in place.
Yes.
I can see it all so clearly now.
The path to what I covet most laid out plainly within my mind’s eye.
The sound of the clicking lock pulls me from my thoughts.
Did someone just lock me in this room?