“Please.”
The man at the sink shuts the faucet off and takes his time shaking the water from his fingers. Then he carefully dries them on a gray towel hanging from a rack beside the mirrored cabinet. I know he can hear me. He knowsIknow he’s ignoring me on purpose.
It’s a silent game we play. In the end, he eyes his reflection in the mirror and then heads for the door. I flinch when he turns the light off. The darkness should be a welcome friend by now, but it’s suffocating. It hides too many unknown variables lurking just out of reach.
The man closes the door behind him, but I don’t hear the latch lock. His heavy footsteps retreat away from me, down a hall maybe? I don’t remember enough of the layout of where he brought me to make a proper guess.
I’m too tired to sleep, however. So I wait.
My captor returns justas graying daylight drifts in through the bathroom’s only window. It’s built into the wall, high above me—too high to reach. Or so he seems to think when he appears in the doorway and eyes it with a frown. Maybe he’s just cursing what I assume will be another rainy day?
He provides no answers. There’s an intention conveyed in the way he moves, however. Fluidly. Self-assuredly. He knows I won’t run. He knows I won’t fight. I think I bore him. Perhaps that’s why he sighs when he finds me curled up in the bathtub where he left me last.
He’s fully dressed now, wearing jeans and a faded, gray T-shirt sporting the name of some band Vinny would smear as vulgar. His feet are bare, and I eye his overgrown toenails as he pads to the center of the narrow room and comes to a stop at the center of a fuzzy, blue rug.
“Get up.”
The tension in his voice stirs something in my blood. The part of me that obeys Vinny without question stirs sleepily, recognizing the power of a man with the potential to be just as brutal a master. He’s not used to taking orders—he prefers to give them. I saw a glimpse of it last night when he interfered with the plans of the red-haired man. A wounded doe knows a dog when she sees one, and this man is no different from Vinny. They even stand the same.
“Get up,” he repeats. There’s no glimmer of concern in his eyes for the fact that I’m still dizzy from the blood loss. He’s impatient, and I’m too tired to tempt him.
My body screams in agony when I attempt to sit upright. It takes me three tries before I can get a good enough grip on the rim of the tub to haul my upper body from the base of it.God. My ear burns when I lift it from the towel. The terrycloth tries to cling to the ruined skin. Fresh beads of blood drip down to coatmy neck, but I don’t bother wiping them away. It’s only when I try to stand on trembling legs and climb out of the tub that simple physiology overcomes sheer will.
I’m too weak. My knee slips and I go sprawling forward. My elbow strikes the tiled floor while one of my legs remains caught in the tub. My ass is in the air, my dress bunched up around my waist. If I’m expecting the man to help me, I’m sorely disappointed. He merely stands there, watching and waiting.
The world swims while I wrestle to regain control of my limbs, and I somehow manage to hook one of my hands underneath me and push off the floor. My other knee crosses over the rim of the tub and catches the end of the fuzzy rug before I can fall. I’ve almost managed to raise myself up on both hands when I vomit. Foul liquid splashes mere inches away from the man’s toes. The next torrent bathes them in it.
I stiffen in grim anticipation. Vinny would hit me for daring to soil him, even by accident. This man... Well, this man just sighs.
The floor creaks beneath his weight as he turns and exits the room, his footsteps slow and unhurried. I press my cheek against the icy floor and try to imagine what might happen if he never comes back. I could bleed out. Die here. It would be peaceful. No Vinny. No violence. No lies.
My delirious brain plays tricks on me. I start to drift off. When something jostles my shoulder, I believe that it is Saint Peter finally here to wrench me out of this world and into the next—but it’s another entity shaking me awake. I blink my eyes open and shudder at the sight of the filthy foot nudging my shoulder. My captor has returned. He drops something onto the floor in front of me, missing the messy puddle of my vomit by inches.
“Change.”
The command tickles old nerve endings of fear that I’d thought living under Vinny for so long had snuffed out. At leastuntil I notice that the garment he’s given me is an old cotton T-shirt that smells like cigarette smoke and musk. He’s worn it. He hasn’t washed it. A part of me trembles at the thought of slipping it on over my dress. Vinny’s carefully selected scents and this man’s don’t mesh. It’s two different worlds clashing together with an aroma that scratches at my nostrils.
Groaning, I struggle to pull myself upright. My support arm wobbles while I reach for the shirt with the other. My captor watches me observe it as if I’m checking the thread count. How long has it been since I’ve worn something that hasn’t been hand-sewn or purchased in a fancy boutique?
Is it sad that my body trembles, aching to find out? Shifting sideways, I spread the shirt out in front of me. It’s plain, sporting no markings on the front. When I finger the wide collar, my first plan changes. Rather than pull the shirt on over my dress, I tug on the lacy collar of it instead. It’s fitted too close to my body for me to easily slip off. A prison made of silk and satin.
There’s a zipper at the back, and I can sense something dark swell on the horizon when I scuttle around so that my back is facing the stranger. With one hand, I pull asidethe mess of hair that drapes my shoulders, and then I pose a simple request. “C-can you unzip me?” My voice cracks.
Vinny’s specter lingers over the shadows of the room, always watching. My maids have been female for a reason. He’s never even let one of his men touch me, whether when I’m alone or in his presence. An insane trill races down my spine when the floor shifts as the stranger comes closer. Iwanthim to touch me. I only wish Vinny had some way of knowing. Reckless abandon makes my head spin more dangerously than the pain from my severed ear does. Is this what freedom feels like?
My captor has no idea as to the gravity of the situation. When he crouches behind me and brutally tugs at the zipper nestled between my shoulder blades, he doesn’t seem to realize he’s just committed sacrilege against the church of Vincent Stacatto,violating his heavenly Lynn. He doesn’t seem to understand why I shiver and flinch into his coarse fingers, desperate to feel every broken, dirty nail graze my skin. Even if I return to hell, the sensation of his hands on me will be a dark souvenir. Vinny’s control doesn’t extend across the entire world the way he’d like to think. He’s powerless here. I let another man touch me. I evenwantedhim to.
“Damn it.”
My zipper struggles against him though. If I don’t care about the potential backlash of this situation, then this priceless dress does. He has to bunch the fabric in what feels like two fists and tug.The back of the dress tears and I shiver when icy air tickles the bared flesh revealed within the gap. This is real. I could hunch over, I suppose, and attempt to shield my naked body from him. I could ask him to leave.
I do neither. I shift my shoulders instead and let the dress slide from them with the same casual ease he used to undress in front of me. He’s watching. His eyes paint a burning trail from my ass to the top of my head—I feel it even though I don’t turn to see him there. I inhale. Then I take my time bunching his shirt in my hands before lifting it above my head. The motions feel so strange, and I snicker with the realization that it’s the first time I’ve dressed myself in five years. In the end, when I finally tug the hem of the shirt down over my knees, I think I’ve put it on backward—as well as inside out.
If my captor notices, he says nothing. I hear him sigh again, which is followed by the telltale groan of strained metal. He’s sat on the toilet, I see when I glance over my shoulder. His pants are still on fully, and he’s seated on the lid. With one hand, he reaches out and flips on the faucet to the sink, which he can easily reach. Then he snags the gray hand towel from the rack and wets it. His eyes darken with concentration as he drags the rag along the tops of his feet and then between his toes, erasing all traces of me from his skin. I should apologize, but my lips won’t budge.
I fidget with the fabric of his shirt instead, twisting the itchy, cheap material between my fingers.
“Get up,” the man says when he finishes cleaning himself. He stands, and I attempt to, using the rim of the sink for balance.
