“You have to bring me home,” I repeat, as if maybe he didn’t hear me the first time and this will be the ticket to getting him to understand how important this is.
“No,” he repeats, his tone firm.
I smack at his chest, “I can’t stay here!”
“You bloody well will, and we’ll talk about this when you’re in your right mind.”
He picks me up again, swings his legs off the bed, then carries me into a large bathroom. The tile’s light blue, the accents silver, bright overhead lighting nearly blinding me. He turns the shower on, but I’m still fully clothed.
“Take them off,” he says.
I strip out of my clothes quickly. He scowls at the total lack of hesitation. I’ve used my body before to get what I need. When I’m fully naked, I turn to him.
“I’ll do whatever you want if you let me go,” I whisper. I offer my full, naked body to him. I lift back my head and jut my body toward him boldly, my tits and curves on full display.
His jaw firms. He points one finger toward the shower. “Get in there before I redden your damn arse.”
The old me would’ve been embarrassed by this, I think. But I don’t care right now. All I know is, right now he means it, and I don’t want to push him to make good on his threat. I step into the shower, and turn it on cold.
I lean up against the cool tile. The blissfully cool water feels so damn good, I sigh. It doesn’t relieve all the pain and fire, but some. I shake from the cold, but can’t bear the thought of the water getting any hotter than this, because it’s the chill that’s keeping the fire inside my skin from burning me.
“Feels good,” I murmur. “Feels bloody good.”
He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. I look over my shoulder to find him staring at me, his gaze steadily fixed on my eyes. Does he not like what he sees? I can’t be bothered by that now, though. I need more water. I turn my body to face the steady stream, my palms open upward, and close my eyes. The water flows and flows, a cleansing waterfall, washing away my tears.
He slowly makes it warmer, and I can tolerate it.
I rotate, but I’m shaking, and I stumble. I feel his hands on me, steadying me.
“Come here,” he says, as he tugs me closer to him.
I open my eyes. There’s bottles of soap and shampoo, and I reach for them on instinct. He watches me lather my hair. This is nice stuff, much better than the cheap bottles I get for myself.
“Mmm, flowers,” I mutter to myself.
“Lavender.”
“’Tisn’t purple, though?” My words are distant and muddied. I note a corner of his lips quirks up.
“Rinse your hair, Aisling,” he says, again with the patience one might have with a small child. “I’ve got tea and food for you in the other room.”
“I don’t want to leave the shower,” I say. If I do, the burning will be worse, I know it. And it feels good in here, like the shakiness and pain are being washed away somehow.
“You must. Come, now. Behave yourself, and do what I say.”
I shake my head. I can’t. I don’t want to.
With pursed lips, he reaches over me and yanks the knob. The beautiful, blissful stream of water comes to a sudden halt.
“You’re mean,” I say, slapping at his hands, but he pays me no heed. “Leave it.”
He captures my wrist in his strong grip and pins my arm to my side. “Do not strike at me.”
I feel chastened and hang my head. The smell of something warm and fragrant hits my senses, but my belly churns.
“I don’t want to eat.”
He only leads me out of the shower and wraps a towel around me. “That’s a girl.”
I reach for the shower to turn it back on again, but he only takes my fingers and tucks them in his fist. “Ah ah,” he says, shaking his head. “Out here, now.”
There are clothes laid out on the bed, pretty, pastel things that look soft and comfortable. I eye them warily. I’ve never worn things like that. I look down at my body, wrapped in a towel and look back at him.
He hasn’t tried anything. He hasn’t so much as touched my breasts or my arse.
“Are you gay?” I ask warily.
He gives me a quizzical look. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“You haven’t touched me.”
“What kind of a douchebag would touch a girl strung out like this?”
I don’t quite know how to process his response. Every man I’ve been with?
“You don’t want me, then?”
His brows draw together. “Get dressed, eat your food, and stop your questions.” One minute he’s gentle, the next he’s stern. I don’t know what to expect with him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Didn’t ask if you were hungry,” he says, the stern voice back. “You’ll fucking eat, because it’ll help.”
“You’re not my bloody father.”
He only grunts and glares, then points his finger to the food on the bedside table. My stomach clenches. I’m not hungry.
I dig in my heels. “If I eat, I might vomit.”
He shakes his head. “You will not.”
I fold my arms across my chest. He folds his arms across his.
“Sebastian says you must,” he says. “Just a few bites of bread and broth.”
“Who the fuck is Sebastian?”
“Clan doctor.”
“He’s not my doctor.”
“He is now.” He glances at his wristwatch. “Now, if you haven’t put that food in your belly within one more minute, I’m going to turn you across my knee, give you that spanking you’ve earned, then force feed you myself.”
My jaw drops, but he isn’t bluffing. I can tell by the determined look in his eyes he’ll do just that.
“Fine, then, you brute.” He doesn’t flinch. I take a bite of bread, then follow it with a little broth. Tiny nibbles seem to ease a minuscule bit of the shakes and nausea, but I can’t eat much.
“I’ve had enough,” I tell him. “I can’t eat anymore.”
He pushes the tray aside. “That’ll do then, for now. Tomorrow we’ll try again.”
I look out the window, almost surprised to see it’s pitch black outside. But still, the pain in my body burns. I don’t know how I’ll sleep without something to soothe me.
“I need it to help me sleep,” I say. I know before I finish my sentence, he won’t give me what I’m longing for.
“Not tonight,” he says. “If that means you don’t sleep, then you don’t, but eventually you’ll be tired enough you’ll get some rest.” He knows what “it” is. I should be ashamed of that. I’m almost relieved.
“You don’t know that.”
He half-smiles. “Then we’ll see, won’t we?”
To my shock, he produces a pair of handcuffs from the bedside table. I blink at the cold, harsh metal, but he doesn’t do anything with them. He places them beside me.
“You may not leave,” he says. “Tonight, I’ll sit by the door until you sleep, but if you set foot out of this bed without my permission, I’ll restrain you.”