I closed my eyes, to try and stop them, to not show any weakness in front of such a strong and formidable man. Arthur pulled away, clearly seeing my tears. I opened my eyes, and when I did, he was staring at me like he never had before. His steel eyes seemed softer somehow, sympathetic. His head tilted to the side, and he placed both hands on my face, careful of my hurt cheek.
With the touch of feather, he smudged the tears from my skin with his thumbs. I swallowed at the heaviness of the moment. The touch of his hands on my face was like a balm to my severed nerves, to the fear that was coursing so thickly in my veins that my entire body ached.
Arthur’s white shirt had turned transparent, and through the material I saw his ripped muscles and haunting black tattoos. The London skyline on his torso appeared sinister and gothic—the London of old, Victorian, eerie.
He stayed silently before me as I shed tear after tear, exorcising the images of the attackers, their unwanted touches. When they had run dry, he took the shower head and rinsed off my hair.
He grabbed a flannel from the shelf, covered it with body wash and bent down until he was at my eye level. I held out my arms, and Arthur ran the flannel over my reddened skin. My breathing grew more laboured with every stroke he made. He moved the flannel over my neck and down over my breasts. I was breathless as he skimmed over my flesh, but he never once looked at me with desire. Not in this moment. He was caring for me after an attack. And I was drawn to him all the more for it.
Arthur dragged the flannel down my legs and over my feet. As he stood back up, he hooked his arm around my waist and turned me around. With one arm keeping me steady, he ran the flannel over my back and then down over my backside and the tops of my thighs.
I fought back tears of both sorrow and relief. Sorrow for the attack, but relief that Arthur had saved me. Turning me back to sit on the ledge, Arthur brought the shower head to me and rinsed off the soap.
Who was this man? The man who had just killed four others in front of me, without exertion or guilt. The sadistic man who had forced someone to castrate himself as I watched. And now he was here, caring for me like a saint, when we all knew he was anything but.
Arthur carried me from the shower and wrapped an oversized bath sheet around me. He placed me on the bed, and then ducked back into the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, blocking Arthur from view. But when I lifted my eyes, I saw his reflection in the fog-free mirror. I saw every inch of him as he tossed off his shirt and shorts. I swallowed as his lightly tanned body came into perfect view. Then he removed his boxers, and I felt my cheeks flush as he moved fully before the mirror, totally bared, running a towel through his dark hair.
My breathing came heavy, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He was tall and ripped and tattooed and more than well-endowed. Arthur wiped the lenses of his glasses on a cloth and placed them back on his face. Before I could avert my eyes, his gaze found mine in the mirror. I wanted to turn away.
But I couldn’t.
I clutched the towel tighter around me and stayed transfixed as Arthur dried himself, never taking his eyes off me, moving the towel over every inch of his skin—skin that was scarred in multiple places. But the scars couldn’t take anything away from his rugged beauty.
Drops of water slid down his muscles. I wanted to feel them underneath my hands. I wanted to thread my fingers through his damp hair and feel his full lips against my own. Arthur was nothing like Hugo. In fact, he was the polar opposite in every way. I had never longed for Hugo. I’d never wanted him to possess me, own me and make me forget the very essence of who I was.
Arthur came back through to the bedroom, his towel tied around his waist. From his wardrobe, he pulled out a long t-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. He threw them on the bed beside me. “For you.”
“Thank you,” I said. He took a pair of black pyjama shorts out for himself, putting them on under his towel.
Arthur tipped his head back and sighed. I wondered what he was thinking. If he was regretting me being here. When he lowered his head, he said, “Get dressed. We need to ice your cheek.”
We. The thrill that word inspired was pathetic, but nonetheless real.
I quickly dressed in the clothes he gave me. They smelled of him. Of tobacco and fresh water and whatever laundry detergent the staff on the yacht used.
When I was done, he wrapped his arm around my waist and guided me from his room. His body was hard and strong beside mine, his hand splayed on my stomach to keep me steady.
His closeness left me breathless, light-headed and skin burning.
In the main living room, he helped me down to the couch. He filled a clean tea towel with ice from the freezer and brought it to me. “Thank you.” I held the towel to my cheek, hissing at the sting.
Arthur busied himself at the bar, his back muscles flexing with every movement he made. He came back to me with a glass of whisky, and a straight gin with ice for himself. He leaned against the bar and looked out of the bifold doors at the dark sky and glittering lights of Marbella’s pretty marina.
“Arthur,” I said, needing to hear something from him, anything. He barely spoke, and it was driving me insane. He turned to me. “Thank you.” He nodded as if what he had done was nothing. As if killing four men wasn’t a huge deal, just an everyday part of his life.
Judging by the rumours about his firm, that might have been true.
I took a sip of my whisky, feeling the heat from the spirit coat my throat. It also gave me the courage to say, “You killed those men.” Arthur didn’t react to my words; they rolled off him as breezily as if I’d mentioned it was warm outside. “You killed them, Arthur … and what you did to the last man, with the glass …”
Arthur watched me carefully and said, his voice neutral, “I’ve done worse, princess.”
Princess …
Despite the endearment, blood drained from my face. “No, I don’t believe that …” Arthur walked over and crouched in front me. His blue eyes searched mine. They were a dark kind of blue, almost navy, a unique colour that suited his dark, mysterious personality. Like the sky at dusk before the darkness came and smothered it with the black of night.
“Believe it, princess.” He studied my face, lifting the ice pack back to my cheek. I hissed at the cold, but he held my hand in place regardless. He licked his lips, and I couldn’t help but trace the movement with my eyes. He’d licked his lips at my house five years ago, a silly habit of his I’d always remembered. I was as transfixed by it now as I was then.
Arthur took a sip of his gin. “Everything you’ve heard about me and my men will probably be true.” His lip curled a fraction—a flicker of amusement, or maybe pride. “What you’ve heard about my entire family will also no doubt be true. In fact …” He tilted his head to the side as he pushed a strand of hair back from my face. I held my breath at the action. “We’ve done worse than you’ve imagined.” Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “A lot fucking worse.”
“You’re only eighteen, like me,” I said, dumbly, as if that would somehow make him innocent. I shook my head, trying to sort my thoughts into what I wanted to say, what I wanted to know. “I mean, you’re too young. And those men tonight … it was easy for you. Killing them.” His blank expression only confirmed that to be true. “And the last man. What you made him do to himself …”