Chapter 14 That wasn't very nice.
Eva
My breath hitched. I could feel the heat radiating from him, a palpable force that made my skin tingle. I wanted to look away, but I was trapped in the silver of his eyes, a prisoner in my own body.
"Get dressed," I managed to say, my voice a hoarse whisper.
"Why?" he asked, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed against the skin, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through me. "It's just the two of us. And I've seen you in less."
He hadn't, not in this life. But the words triggered a flash of something, a memory that wasn't mine but was, a feeling of being seen, of being known, in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
The image was fleeting: a canopy of stars so close they felt like I could reach out and touch them. His face, younger, staring up at me with a desperate, burning love that made my heart ache. And then the kiss: a taste of starlight and sin, a violation and a revelation all at once.
I gasped, pulling back as if I’d been struck. My hand found the bowl, and without thinking, I smashed it against the side of his head.
It shattered with a satisfying crunch, sending stew and ceramic shards flying.
He didn’t even flinch. He just turned his head slowly, a piece of pottery caught in his hair. He looked at the mess, then back at me, and he smiled. A slow, predatory smile that made my blood run cold.
"Well, now," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "That wasn't very nice."
I scrambled back, crab-walking until my back hit the wall. "Wear fucking pants," I snarled, grabbing the biggest shard of the bowl I could find. The sharp edge bit into my palm.
He watched me, his expression unreadable. Then he stood up and walked over to a small chest in the corner of the cell. He opened it and pulled out a pair of worn denim jeans. He put them on, the movements slow, deliberate, a private show just for me.
"Better?" he asked, buttoning the fly.
The jeans made it worse. Fuck him. "You're still a monster," I said, my grip tightening on the shard.
"True," he agreed. "But now I'm a monster with pants on." He held out a hand to me. "Come on."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," I said, pressing the shard to my own throat. "I'll bleed out before I let you touch me again."
His jaw tightened. "You think I'm going to hurt you?"
I raised my broken wrist and waved it in his face. "You've got a funny way of showing affection."
"That was a warning, Eva," he said, his voice losing its patience. "And you haven't seen anything yet."
He took a step toward me, and I pressed the shard harder into my skin, a thin line of blood welling up. "I mean it," I said, my voice shaking.
He stopped. He looked at the blood on my neck, and then at the torc on the cot. His gaze softened.
"All right," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "No touching. But you're not staying in here. The floor is cold, and the air is damp. Your wrist will get infected."
In that moment, I felt dumb. Really dumb. Why was I holding a shard of broken bowl to my throat? This wasn't a movie. I wasn't a damsel in distress. I really needed therapy. Or an exorcism.
I lowered the shard, my arm trembling with adrenaline. "Fine," I said, my voice still tight. "But I'm not holding your hand."
He nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He led me out of the cell, down a narrow tunnel, and into a set of rooms carved into the rock. They were surprisingly comfortable, with a large bed, a stone fireplace, and a wall of books. A real room, not a cage. A wolf's den, I thought, with a shiver.
He pointed to the bed. "Sit."
I sat, because arguing would have been pointless, and my legs were starting to feel like overcooked noodles. He came back with a medical kit, not the basic one from the cell, but a professional-grade one, the kind a surgeon would use.
He crouched in front of me, a respectful distance between us. "I need to look at your wrist," he said. "I'm not going to bite. Unless you ask me to."
I hesitated for a moment, then held out my arm. His hands were gentle as he undid my makeshift splint, his touch clinical, impersonal. He cleaned the wound with a sterile wipe, the antiseptic stinging my skin. I didn't flinch.
He was quiet as he worked, completely focused. I watched him as the firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, and his long, dark hair fell forward, brushing against my knee. For a crazy second, I had the urge to push it back, to feel the soft strands between my fingers.
What was wrong with me? This man turned into a monster, threw me in a cell, and threatened to do unspeakable things to me. And I was having hair-related thoughts.
He finished bandaging my wrist, his movements steady and confident. "There," he said, looking up at me. "Good as new."
"Thanks," I said, the word feeling foreign and clumsy in my mouth.
He stood up, putting the medical kit aside. "You should rest," he said. "The bed's clean."
I looked at the bed. It was huge, piled high with pillows and blankets, and it looked incredibly inviting. I was exhausted, not just physically, but mentally. My brain felt like it had been put through a blender.
"I'm not sleeping in your bed," I said, the words out before I could stop them.
He raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You've slept in it before."
"Not in this lifetime,"
A slow, sad smile touched his lips. "No," he agreed. "Not in this lifetime." He turned and walked toward the door. "I'll be on the couch. Don't try to leave."
"The door's open," I pointed to the heavy wooden door that was, in fact, slightly ajar.
"Yes." He left without another word, leaving me alone in the quiet room.
I sat there for a long time before I collapsed onto the bed, my face pressed into the soft blankets that smelled like him.