In this situation, he could rip my clothes off of my body, grab me—he could doanythinghe wants to, because I am helpless,buthis eyes are on the floor right now. And for the first time in my life, I actually feel like a man respects me. A man who is bad. A man who is keeping me against my will respects me enough to not look at my naked body. And then that ugly, twisted piece of me tells me it’s because I’m not good enough. Why would he want to look at me? And then—I want him to. Iwanthim to be disrespectful, and I hate myself for it.
I step out of one leg, then the next. Those dark eyes of his glance up at me before he stands, and this time, I hold his stare. His fingers brush over my shoulder, around to my back, and then he unhooks my bra, pulls it away from my skin, and lets it fall to the floor. Part of me wants to cover myself up, but that other part of me wants to make him look. My bare chest rises in deep swells, my nipples nearly brushing against his shirt, but his eyes remain glued to mine. “I’m not gonna look,” he says barely above a breath.
“What if I want you to?” I ask, and shame washes over me.
Ignoring my comment, his warm hands reach my hips, taking both sides of my panties and dragging them down my legs. With his eyes still on my face, he takes a step back, and I quickly climb into the tub. The water’s scalding, but I don’t care. I sink beneath the surface and close my eyes. I hear the clomp of his boots over the floor, and I open my eyes just in time to see him holding out a washcloth and a bar of soap.
“Thank you,” I whisper, embarrassed that all I want is to have him look at me.
A small smile graces his face before he turns his back to me. I shouldn’t be attracted to him, but I am. All I want at this moment is for him to acknowledge me, for him to look at me like he wants me. Nothing about this is right.
There’s a pop and a creak. I look up and the window is cracked. Max turns to the side as he places a cigarette to his lips and lights it. His profile is so rugged yet refined. The late evening sun casts a slight glow behind his silhouette making him appear almost holy, but the moment he blows the thick smoke through the opened window all I can think is how much he resembles the devil. And I am coming to realize most things about this man are an oxymoron. Gentle yet savage, respectful but abhorrent—God and devil.
The longer I watch him smoke that cigarette, the harder my heart pounds. I am losing my mind. I will die in this place, either mentally or physically—possibly both. I don’t want either of those things to happen.
He takes another slow drag then rubs his hand over the back of his neck and groans, I can almost watch the tension build in his muscles. Then a single thought comes to mind.Escape.How hard would it be to get out of this tub and get that key from him? But then what? I’m soaking wet. I’d slip before getting to the door, drop the key. Then he’d be angry…
I force my attention away from him and wash myself as best I can. Max stays right there, his back to me, his gaze aimed out of the window, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
I sit in the tub until the water turns cold, and he has not yet once turned around. I stare at his broad back, my emotions swinging from anger to gratefulness and everywhere in between. “Can I have a towel, please?” I ask.
“You want your back washed?” he says.
“No.”
“Why?” He exhales, his shoulders falling. “You’re filthy.” He tosses the cigarette out of the window and pushes away from the wall, but keeps his palms flat against the window frame. He taps his fingers over the wood as he drops his chin to his chest. The fact that he hasn’t turned around yet makes me uneasy for some reason. “Just lean over your knees,” he says. “I won’t see anything.”
“I don’t care if you do,” I whisper.
He turns around and I’m still sitting up, fully exposed. He wets his lips with his tongue, then swallows, his eyes boring into mine. My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for his gaze to drift down my body, as I wait for that validation I so desperately and shamefully want, but his eyes never falter, and seconds later, his shadow falls over the tub.
I watch the water ripple, distorting his reflection as he takes the washcloth from the edge of the tub, dips it beneath the water, and wrings it out over my back. Closing my eyes, I lean over my knees and lay my cheek against my arm. And this, even though it shouldn’t be, is intimate. This act in and of itself throws my mind into a jumbled mess. One of his large hands rests on my shoulder, the other washes over me in gentle movements. He sweeps my hair to the side of my neck to wash over my shoulders, and he’s gotten so close to me now, each time he exhales, the warmth of his breath sends tingles down my spine. And for a moment—a fleeting moment—the tension wound up in my muscles relaxes.
“That should feel much better,” he says, rinsing over my back.
When I look up, he’s standing next to the tub, holding out a towel. I step out of the bath and he wraps the thick towel around me. “I’ll get you some clothes when I go into town…”
He grabs my wrists and takes me to the door, digging the key from his pocket. I stare at him so confused and distraught. “Why?” I ask as we walk out into the hallway. That is all I want to know. Just a why. Why I’m here, why he cares…something.
“Why?” He stops at the top of the stairwell before leading me down. “Why are you here? Let me put it this way, to some people nothing means more than money. Not blood, not love, not life. Greed. One of the deadly sins. That’s why you’re here, darling. It all comes down to greed.”
Sometimes he says things that are so vague I can’t make heads or tails of them. “Stop talking in riddles, would you?” I say.
Now we’re in the foyer and my pulse is thrumming because I do not want to go back into that dark hole.
“Greed and irony…” Max laughs as we round the corner.
“Irony?”
“Yes, irony because you and I have evidently been tied to one another for much longer than the few weeks you’ve been here.”
It’s been weeks…
“Your dad…” He inhales. “Well, he killed my family.” He doesn’t slow his stride. His tone hasn’t changed.
My stomach knots, and I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Sorry,” I manage to breathe that word out.
I know what my father does, but it never seems real. It’s more like a mobster movie or novel because he’s so kind to me and my brother and mother, so tenderhearted, yet at the end of the day he is a cold-blooded killer. You have to separate things like that from the people you love. Sometimes, in order to love someone, you must first forget the things that youcan’tlove about them. “I’m sorry,” I say again, like those words can change something.
