10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Ididn’t sleep.
Fear held my eyes wide open, fear over what might come next. I stared at the freezing pancakes and the walls—the gray stone and badly drawn pictures. Now, I hated the green and orange notes so much more than the dull canvas they covered. I hated the lies they told of a man with good intentions. A man who had grown to care for me. Such a fucking lie.
One I had too easily believed.
I hated the sweet aroma of cold syrup, making my situation feel all the more sour.
I rolled onto my back, the plain ceiling staring down at me, weighing down on me, making it harder to breathe. I didn’t close my eyes, tears rolling out on their own accord. I stayed awake for hours...days...I thought of all the ways I could kill Mercer if I got close enough and all the ways I could end my own life, because even if I could kill him, I wouldn’t.
At some point, exhaustion beat fear and granted me a reprieve, sending me into a sleep where no nightmares interrupted.
But that came to an abrupt end.
Water beat down on my face, sneaking into my nose and trying to drown me. This wasn’t one of the ways I had planned to end my life. It wasn’t the crippling pain of starvation. It wasn’t the tight grip of stress around my throat.
But a tight grip held me.
Fingers squeezed my cheeks, pulling me forward and angling my face, preventing the flooding of my lungs.
I coughed, water spluttering from my mouth.
I blinked my eyes open, the hot water clouding my vision.
A heavy slap hit between my shoulders, and I coughed again.
I felt around, trying to find Mercer and his heavy hand that I didn’t want to put bruises on me.
I couldn’t see him.
I couldn’t see anything with the water still burning my tired eyes.
The lights were out in this bathroom. A dim glow crept in through an open door, but it wasn’t generous with what it delivered.
I finally found wet clothes surrounding me, tailored pants and a shirt, different than the ones I had seen him in last, hinting this was a new day…or night, judging by the dark sky meeting the frosted-glass window.
My shirt was missing from my cold body, water droplets splashing up at my skin from the puddle where we sat. Pebbled nipples met the chill, and his gaze dipped.
I couldn’t ask him what the hell he was doing. He couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer, even if he could.
I pushed myself under the water, needing the heat to erase the ice forming in my blood. I hid what he'd already seen behind my arms, and I was almost sure I saw a flash of white teeth in the dark.
The monster was smiling at me, finding humor in my embarrassment.
He stood. Expensive shoes splashed through the water, proving he found things disposable.
I gulped, a tear falling into the water below. He stood before me, his crotch, with a very prominent bulge, too close to my face as he leaned in to dispense a blob of shampoo into his hands.
Those expensive shoes nudged me, encouraging me to turn around.
The mango-scented gel touched my scalp, dancing around hair strands and bald patches as his magic fingers directed. He was careful not to get it in my eyes...funny, I didn’t think he would care if something burned me. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already set my heart alight.
I glanced back, and he was still careful. His hand created a barrier against my forehead before his thin thread of patience snapped, forcing me forward.
Anger made me stiff. I had questions for him...him and his passive handsome face. He acted nonchalantly, making me think this was normal to him. Mistreatment and cruelty weren’t how I was raised to treat people...regardless of circumstance.
I bit my tongue, literally. It was the only way to keep my hateful words inside.
He didn’t deserve to hear them. He didn’t deserve my hate and sneers. He didn’t deserve my voice.
And I deserved compassion I wouldn’t get.
He pulled the shower head into his hand and watched as the bubbles in my hair slid down my back. When he was done, he guided me back with his hands, not that wretched shoe this time. He sat in the water, wet clothes still on, his eyes examining my face.
He washed me with a peach-colored shower gel and a clean sponge in circular motions, starting at my breasts. He massaged all kinds of emotions to the surface as he washed away weeks of dirt. I dared another glance at his face, finding he was already looking at me with his icy stare.
My breaths came harder. Faster. Drawing his attention to my mouth. His gaze dwelled a little too long, and something, neither of us could say what, compelled him closer.
A whisper of breath asked for a kiss as it skated across my lips. And I gave it. I didn’t pull away when a simple kiss became passionate, when it became more. When this fully dressed man shadowed over me, his tongue dominant and demanding to my sweet and innocent mouth. He laid me down, his body over mine. Close. So close. The shower rained on us, and the bulge between his legs pressed into me.
Thoughts of what he had me do down in that cell came flooding back, and I choked on them. Them, or his tongue, as it pushed deeper into my mouth, deep enough for me to lick his scar.
He pulled back slightly, his own insecurities giving me space to turn away. I wanted nothing at all to do with him because that scar was the only thing he hadn’t fucking lied about.
He seized my cheeks, and my mouth popped open by the sheer force of his grip. His tongue rushed back inside, insecurity hidden by control and vulgar dominance. His fingers loosened, slipping down to my throat but going no farther. His grip tightened around my throat. He wasn’t hurting me, but he was showing me he could and was choosing not to.
The hand necklace made me wet.
The inability to move my legs made me grateful for the first time ever. I couldn’t buck up against him like my body begged to. Fingers moved to my breast, kneading the nipple between his forefinger and thumb. I clenched against nothing, but his crotch was close, his hips rocking, teasing.
Arousal pooled in my eyes, lust in his. His hand moved again, squeezing my breast before tracing my minimal curves. It disappeared between my legs. A long finger made my back arch from the water below as it sank inside me.
I moaned again, and he swallowed it. Another finger, another moan. I kissed him back with the same fervor and need he plastered into me. My body tightened, gripping his digits and pulling them deeper, and that was when he did it.
He pulled out.
He froze above me and placed one single kiss on my lips that left us both confused, then he pulled me from the floor and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of garbage—that no longer smelled like garbage—and he turned off the shower.
Arousal still leaked between my legs, the scent of it thick in the air with the mango shampoo. Shame coated everywhere else.
I dangled, the blood rushing to my head, swamping all my thoughts and helping my embarrassment redden my cheeks.
We walked through a low-lit bedroom. Black artsy furniture filled the space, while gold accessories accented and brightened it up.
Before I could take anything in, we were in the hallway. It was long and dark, creepy, and made creepier by this nutjob’s volatile moods. His grip on my legs would put another bruise on me, but I wouldn’t feel the pain from this one.
His long legs swallowed up the distance from one room to another. A wooden floorboard screamed, and fuck, I wanted to scream, too.
He opened the door just down from his, turning on a light. Pink welcomed me inside and surrounded me. I loathed it, but I liked the idea of the bed he dropped me on. Four posts and a soft voile closed me in. His wet shoes left prints on the carpet, and it annoyed me more than the color. But still, I didn’t talk.
He threw a bath towel at me. I had no idea where it came from. It was pink, like everything else, and soft. I rubbed it over my body and squeezed the excess water from my hair.
He sat at an oak dresser near an open window that let in a cold breeze as he penned me a note with the stationery set there. I shivered, and he slammed the window closed.
I jumped when the noise rattled the entire room, the stuffed toys on a high shelf trembling, too, but he did nothing to soothe me...that was expected. His interest in me, or whatever it was that he’d briefly shown, had washed away down the drain.
I should have bitten his tongue.
I should have attacked.
He had no idea how I seethed on the bed as he continued to write, but frustration overtook him, too. And I got the impression he couldn’t finish whatever he wanted to say as the fluffy pink pen shook between his fingers.
Something howled beyond the glass, sounding more like a wild animal than the wind, making me more grateful it was closed. It interrupted him, and my watching him. And he finally set the pen down.
He made his way over to me, causing more shoeprints on the carpet, and sat down. I hid behind the bath towel, not wanting him to see my body, which was still showing signs of arousal, with hard nipples and my pussy glistening. I couldn’t help it. I hated, loved, lusted for, and wanted him all at once.
But I wouldn’t show those last three feelings when he gave me nothing but lies and confusion.
The edge of my bed grew wet thanks to his soggy clothes, all of which clung to his body in the most sinful way. I needed to stop letting him affect me this way. The perfect satin sheets were now crumpled and cold, and it was his fault. And all I could think of were ways we could warm up.
He stared at the note in his hands, tanned fingers folding it in half. He handed it to me, snatching my bath towel in exchange.
I jumped again, but he didn’t so much as look at me.
He didn’t wait for me to read his note.
He was up and gone, squelching shoes carrying him away before I even asked how he knew how to spell my name.
I flipped open the folded sheet the second my door clicked shut, hiding the untraditional spelling of Feebee, and I read...
Your antics in my bathroom were amusing. But that’s all you are to me. Amusement. Don’t ever convince yourself you can be more.
The only reason you’re alive is because I don’t have it in me to stop Chandelle’s heart.
I thought I could have a little fun without the guilt of feeling like I’m cheating.
I was wrong.
You don’t taste like her.
You don’t kiss like her.
Because you’re not her.
You’re nothing to me.
Unworthy.
And it makes me sick that you’re living while she’s not…
He didn’t say more.
He didn’t need to.
Enough had been said.