Page 32 of Hunting Gianna
“You’re a real gentleman,” I say, rattling the chain. “Breakfast in bed is a classic touch.”
He tilts his head, studying the way the cuff has cut into my wrist. “You’re bleeding.”
“Not as much as you probably hoped.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. He picks up the sandwich and holds it out, just out of reach.
“Eat,” he says.
I make a show of sighing, then grab the sandwich with my free hand. I take a bite, slow, never breaking eye contact. It’s ham and cheese, just enough mustard to make my tongue burn. The bread is stale. I eat anyway.
He sets the tray on the bed and crouches, close enough that I could kick him if I really tried. He studies the ring of bruises on my thigh, his fingers hovering above the skin but not touching.
“You’re healing fast.”
“You keeping score?”
He looks up, meets my gaze. “Always.”
I finish the sandwich in three bites, wipe the crumbs on the sheet. I want to throw the plate at his head, but I know he’d catch it. I want to hate him, but my body remembers every second he’s touched me, and I hate that more.
He stands and produces a tiny silver key. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, so small it could disappear if I blinked.
“I’m going to unlock you,” he says. “Don’t do something you’ll regret, little bird.”
I nod.
He unlocks the cuff. The pressure releases in a rush of blood, and I have to clench my fist to keep from moaning. He doesn’t move, just stands there, watching the way my hand trembles.
“There’s a change of clothes in the dresser. Cassidy’s old shit, it’ll be tight, but I think she has some weird stretchy dress. Get comfortable Gianna, we’re going to the lodge today for a grocery top up,” he says. “Shower if you want. I’ll wait outside.”
He leaves, closing the door with a soft click.
For a second, I just sit there, free hand clutching my wrist, the rest of me shuddering with the shock of movement. Then Istagger to the dresser, open the top drawer, and pull out a t-shirt and sweatpants. Fucking hell. The sweats are way too small. Grabbing the dress he talked about, my mouth fell open. It’s a clubbing dress.What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?
Frustration claws through me, but I carry it into the bathroom with me. I miss my own clothes. Goddamn, I miss having a toothbrush. My hairs a wreck. I wanna go home.
The bathroom is tiny, but clean. The soap is unscented, the towels white and threadbare. I strip and step into the shower, cranking the heat until the water scalds my back. I scrub until the skin is red, until the bruises stand out like stains on a painting. I scrub between my legs, over my wrists, behind my ears. I want to erase him, but all I do is make myself raw.
When I finally step out, the steam has fogged the mirror. I wipe it clean with my palm, then stare at my reflection.
I look like hell. My eyes are ringed with dark circles, my cheekbone is swollen, my lips are chapped and cracked. I look like a girl who’s been dragged through the woods and fucked into submission.
I look like a girl who liked it.
I punch the mirror, not hard enough to break it, just enough to see the white flash of pain in my knuckles.
The dress is warm. I sink into it, relishing the softness even as I hate it. The t-shirt falls to my mid-thigh, I towel my hair dry, then tie it back with the hair tie.
Then… I feel the wet between my thighs.
Fucking fantastic. I’ve got my period and I’m stuck in here with the equivalent of a fucking shark. Maybe he will smell it, go feral and eat me.
When I open the door after shoving wads of toilet paper in the underwear I am forced to keep reusing, he’s waiting.
He stands at the end of the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. Like he owns me.
He does. He fucking does.
