It wouldn’t be. She’s mine to hurt in any way I please.
Except hurting her is not what I want to do right now. The violence seething inside me is not for her. It’s for those who hurt her. When I saw her in Diego’s grip, her long hair lank and dull around her pale face, I felt a rage unlike any other. And when she began crying, it was all I could do not to cradle her against me and promise that no one will ever hurt her again.
Not even me.
The urge maddened me then, and it maddens me now. I have no doubt the witch knew what she was doing to me with those tears, just as she knew how to extract information out of me that night in Moscow. Her frail appearance is just that: an appearance. That beautiful blond exterior conceals a trained agent, a spy who’s as skilled at mind games as she is at foreign languages.
“Your five minutes are up,” I say, straightening away from the wall. She’s washed her hair and her body, and is now just standing under the water with her eyes closed and her head tilted back. “Get out.” My voice is harsh, reflecting none of the turmoil I’m feeling.
I won’t let her fuck with me again.
At my words, she jumps, her eyes flying open, and reaches back to turn off the shower. She’s still shaking, though not as badly as before, and I wonder how much of that is an act and how much is actual weakness.
Pulling open the shower door, I grab a towel and throw it at her. “Dry yourself.”
She obeys, toweling off her hair and then her body. As she does so, I notice bruises covering her legs and ribcage and bluish circles under her weary eyes.
Damn her. She’s not faking that.
“That’s enough.” Suppressing the illogical pang of pity, I yank the towel away from her and hang it on a hook. “Let’s go.”
Her eyes plead with me as I grab her arm, but I ignore their silent entreaty, my hold on her unnecessarily rough. I can’t give in to this weakness, to this obsession that seems to be completely out of control. Over the past two months, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t stop wanting her, but this is something else entirely.
She stumbles as I tug her through the doorway, and I stop to pick her up, telling myself that it will be easier to carry her than to drag her. As I swing her up against my chest, I feel the soft press of her breasts and smell her scent, now clean and mixed with the aroma of my body wash. Lust surges through me again, pushing aside my awareness of her too-light weight, and I welcome it. This is exactly what I need: to want her and nothing else. And for that, I can’t have her as this frail, pathetic waif.
I need her stronger.
The bedroom was my destination, but I change my course, heading for the kitchen instead. I can feel her breathing fast—she’s probably afraid—but she doesn’t struggle. She undoubtedly realizes how pointless it would be in her weakened state.
When we reach the kitchen, I set her down in a chair and take a step back. Immediately, she draws her knees up against her chest, concealing much of her naked body. Her eyes are big and scared as she stares at me, her wet hair plastered against her back and shoulders.
“You’re going to eat,” I tell her, approaching the fridge. Opening it, I take out turkey, cheese, and mayo, and place everything on the counter next to the loaf of bread sitting there. As I make the sandwich, I keep an eye on her, making sure she’s not attempting anything—which she’s not. She’s just sitting there, watching warily as I smear the mayo on both slices of bread, slap on some cheese and turkey, and place everything on a plate.#p#分页标题#e#
“Eat,” I say, putting the plate in front of her.
She runs her tongue over her lips. “May I have some water, please?”
Of course. She must be thirsty as well. Without answering, I walk over to the sink, pour a glass of water, and bring it to her.
“Thank you.” Her voice is quiet as she accepts my offering, her slender fingers wrapping around the glass and brushing against mine in the process. A frisson of electricity races up my spine at that accidental touch, and my jeans become uncomfortably tight again, my cock straining against the zipper.
Her eyes flick down for a second before returning to my face, and I see her pupils dilating. She’s aware of my lust for her, and it frightens her. Her hand holding the glass trembles slightly as she drinks, and her other arm tightens around her drawn-up knees.
Good. I want her afraid. I want her to know that I may want her body, but I won’t show her mercy. She won’t be able to manipulate me ever again.
While she’s drinking, I sit down across the table and lean back in the chair, linking my hands behind my head.