The Darkest Torment
Page 33

Kiss him? Whoa! Too far!
But his perfect lips snagged her attention, delicious warmth uncoiling in her belly.
Ignore it! Determined to use her energy to protect him—this man who’d fed her and comforted her—she remained awake the rest of the night, just in case. But no one attempted to sneak into the room; no one even knocked on the door.
When he sat up with a jolt, fully awake and aware, she yawned and muttered, “We’re alone. Everything’s okay.”
“Of course it is.” He climbed to his feet. “Why would you think otherwise?”
Was he kidding? “Because of what you said last night.”
He went still, his back to her. “What did I say last night?”
He couldn’t remember? “You said I’m the reason you breathe—or used to breathe—and you’d be lost without me.”
The muscles between his shoulders knotted, pulling at the shirt he wore. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m teasing. There’s a difference.”
“Teasing?” He spun. “You’re healing.”
She was, wasn’t she? An-n-nd with the realization, grief and guilt enveloped her. But even still, the waves weren’t as big and didn’t quite tug her under the tide.
“You’re going to shower,” he said with a nod. “Today.”
She sputtered. “I would have showered if you’d asked nicely. Now you can take your order and shove—”
He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom, his delectable scent tantalizing her, his protective arms keeping the worst of her emotions at bay.
“You can’t manhandle me to get your way,” she said on a sigh.
“I believe I just proved otherwise.”
“You’re strong, blah blah blah. Do you really think this will end well for you?”
“I’m willing to risk your ire.” His amused smile galled her.
When the water heated and steamed, he placed her inside the shower stall. He even followed her in, clothing and all. And, oh! This had to be heaven.
Her mind betrayed her, failing to supply a reason to protest as he stripped her of everything but her bra and panties. Instead she entertained a crazy thought: Let’s see where this goes.
He kept his own clothes in place and even wore the gloves. He sat down, taking her with him, and anchored her between his legs. She trembled with...anticipation?
“You have a rat’s nest of tangles,” he said. “We have two options. Shave your head or use the conditioner I stole from William, who will protest. With knives.”
“Shave it.” Hair was hair. It would grow back.
“Singular creature. Most women—and that includes William—would fight to the death to protect their locks.”
“Would you?”
“No. I fight for enough already. Although I realize now I’ll gladly fight for your locks.” He slathered her hair with a sweet-smelling cream and, while it soaked into her scalp, soaped up the rest of her, avoiding her intimate areas. In fact, his touch remained impersonal.
And why would it be anything else? She was fragile, weak. The worst attributes ever, according to Baden. And her mother, who’d hoped to prepare her for the day the cancer would win.
He handed her a toothbrush and toothpaste, and she scrubbed her mouth clean.
He rinsed out the hair cream and finally shut off the water. He placed her on the toilet lid, dried her with a soft towel and gently untangled the locks of hair that had dared defy the deep conditioning treatment.
“Are you still unwilling to torture Aleksander?” he asked, his tone cautious.
“I’ll always be unwilling.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Has he given you the coin?”
Anger colored his cheeks. “He resists me at every turn.”
“I’m sorry.” In the bright light, she noticed the cuts and bruises that littered his face. He’d recently been in a fight. Probably multiple fights. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. Of course not.”
But others had.
Baden says many of his points mark the death of a human...
He’d had to fight to survive. “I’d like to doctor your injuries,” she said.
He frowned at her. “I’m fine.”
“But—”
“No. No touching,” he reminded her.
Seriously? “We just took a shower together. Our bodies were pressed together.”
“That was different.”
“How?” she demanded.
He scrubbed a hand over his strained features. “You’re no longer my captive, Katarina. I’ll take you anywhere you wish to go.”
Subject changed. Fine. What else had changed? Her! She didn’t want to leave him, her junkyard dog, even though she should return home and rebuild her kennel. And her bank account.
This man needed help. The game he played with Pandora was a tether. A chain. Through it, he suffered mental and physical abuse. His friends thought she could soothe him and she, well, she really wanted to prove them right. How foolish!
“No need to take me anywhere,” she said. “I’m where I want to be.”
“Why?” He was suspicious...hopeful?
“Why else? I like living on someone else’s dime.”
He stared at her, as if trying to see inside her head. “Very well.” He nodded. “You may stay.”
No protests about her gold-digger status? Bastard.
“Dress.”
Another command. Would he ever just ask?
Maybe he needed a proper example. “Would you please turn around?”
He hesitated, his features tight, before doing as requested. She hopped up, removed her soaking wet undergarments and tugged on the T-shirt and shorts that were folded at the edge of the sink. Once again, the clothes he’d picked for her were meant for a much smaller person; the hem of the shirt ended well above her navel, and the shorts barely covered the curve of her ass.
“All done,” she said.
As she strode past him, he sucked in a mouthful of air. “Your legs...”
She paused to look over each limb, but everything appeared normal. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Was that...reverence in his tone? Did she want it to be?
Her insides heating, she toyed with a lock of hair. He strode to the closet and changed into dry clothing, unabashedly giving her a peek at his naked form, and oh, wow, he was a magnificent specimen. More muscled than she’d realized, a carnal buffet of strength and sinew.