That horrible day is engraved into my memory. The sun blinding me. The knife flying from my hand. The horror in Hector’s eyes when the weapon struck him.
I swallow and shake my head.Don’t think about it.
Unlike at the bathhouse, he doesn’t look away. He watches me, his thoughts veiled behind a bland expression.
After I scrub every inch of my skin, I step from the water. “Are you satisfied now?”
His gaze flickers over me, and I stiffen, even though nothing stirs behind his eyes. No lust. No pity. No hatred.
“Hector?”
He reaches inside his satchel and offers me a clean surcoat and pants, but nothing else.
“Do you have anything to dry with?”
“Just put on the clothes, Sol,” he snaps.
I hold out my bound hands. “How shall I do that with my hands like this?”
He curses under his breath and returns the clothes to the satchel. The lines near his eyes tighten as he holds the rope with his free hand and yanks me toward him.
“Don’t think about running.” Flatness lingers from his words, yet I detect more. Everything he doesn’t say. Everything he probably wants to scream at me.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say sweetly.
“I will not continue to be merciful,” he says, his tone low and edged with warning.
“This is merciful?” I shove my bound hands against his chest. “You keep me tied up like an animal.”
He pushes my hands away from him and unties the rope. I rub at the red lines marring my wrists.
“Put the surcoat on.”
He holds out the surcoat, his frustration palpable. But there’s something else, something that makes me catch my breath. It’s like he’s daring me to defy him, as if he wants nothing more than for me to push back. Maybe he hates the silence too.
“And if I don’t?” I ask again, letting the defiance seep into my voice. “What then?”
“Sol!”
“Gabriel!” The name bursts out before I think it through.
His mouth tightens into a thin line.
“What?” I ask innocently. “Do you not like me calling you bythatname?”
“Put it on.” His mouth tightens even more as he thrusts it against me. “Now.”
“Or what?” I raise my chin and look up at him. “Will you think naughty thoughts?”
“Hades!” He shoves the surcoat over my head. “Put your arms in.”
Goosebumps form on my skin as I grumble again about bossy men and do as he requested, shoving my arms in and yanking the material down my body. He hands me the pants next, and I pull them on under the surcoat.
He waits until I’m finished lacing the ribbons to tie the rope around my wrists. I glare down at those interwoven red threads—hating them, hating being tied up, hating him.
“When is the last time you have even bedded a woman?” I eye him, raking my gaze up and down his stiff body. “It’s not healthy to go so long.” Or so I have read.
Irritation flashes in his eyes as he grips my arm and leads me up the bank. “Are you trying to goad my temper?”
