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A pang of guilt twisted in my chest as Belle's face surfaced in my mind. Sweet Belle, who'd been my rock through this nightmare.
"Belle," I whispered, the sound disappearing into the void. "How are you holding up?"
Visions of her, alone in another cold cell, gnawed at me. We were each other's lifelines, and now we had no one.
A fist pounded against the door, a thunderous boom that echoed deep in my bones. "Sleep, princess," Chris's voice snarled through the steel. "Big day tomorrow."
"Fuck your big day," I shot back, my words a silent scream in my head. No way I'd give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice crack.
But as hard as I tried to fight it, sleep claimed me.
Seven: Chris
I kicked the door open, bucket in one hand, black dress slung over my shoulder. The sound of that heavy swing was the only damn introduction I needed. Ella's eyes shot up, that fucking glimmer of defiance still dancing in them.
"Strip," I barked, dropping the bucket with a clang that echoed off the bare walls. Water sloshed over the rim, rippling on the concrete floor.
Her lips parted, no doubt ready to spit some annoying-ass retort, but she clamped them shut. She took a deep breath instead, chest rising under the thin fabric of her shirt. Her fingers trembled as they reached for the hem, pulling it up inch by torturous inch, pale skin revealing itself.
"Everything," I growled, stepping closer, feeling the heat radiating off her. My hand flexed at my side, aching to touch, to claim. Shit, this wasn't just a job anymore.
She hesitated again, hands skimming the waistband of her jeans, and I could practically hear the gears turning in that pretty head. Calculating the play, the angle. Smart girl. But not smart enough to save herself.
"Fuck, do I need to help you?" My voice was rough, filled with an anger I didn't feel. I was a beast on the edge, barely leashed by my own damn will. "This isn't a fucking strip club."
Her jeans hit the floor softly, delicate feet stepping out of them. She stood there, a vision of vulnerability, all long hair and eyes that had seen too much shit. Covered in nothing but shadows and underwear that didn't hide a thing.
"Underwear."
"Chris, please."
"Now."
She whimpered but obeyed, turning to face the wall as she bent over, the gap between her legs allowing me a peek at what was hidden between them. Fucking perfect pussy. Just like I knew it would be.
"Good girl." I wasn't sure if it was praise or a curse. Maybe both.
"Turn around," I commanded next, watching as her body obeyed me even as her spirit rebelled. The sight of her back, the subtle strength in her muscles, did something to me. Made me want to protect and destroy in the same fucked-up breath.
"Chris," she started, a plea or maybe a challenge on her lips, but it died as she caught the look in my eyes.
"Quiet, Ella," I snapped, picking up the sponge. It dripped water onto the floor between us, a chasm that was both too wide and too close. "Come here. Now."
The sponge, heavy with lukewarm water, hovered a moment above her skin. My hand, all knuckles and inked stories, paused. She flinched before the first touch, a small jump of muscles, but no words spilled from those full lips. I pressed down, the sponge trailing a wet path along her collarbone.
I moved in slow circles, the grime of her captivity lifting away beneath the firm pressure. Water darkened with the sins of this place, sins that clung to both of us like shadows we couldn't shake. But her skin, it came back to life under my hands, flushing with a warmth that belied the chill of the room.
"Feels strange," she murmured.
"Strange how?"
"Being touched without... without it being a fight."
"Shit." The word slipped out, more curse than conversation. I struggled to keep my dick under control.
"Turn around," I said, voice stripped of emotion. A command, because that's what it had to be. I couldn't let her see the chaos she stirred in me.
She complied, movements fluid as her hair swept from her skin, revealing the expanse of her back. Scars, some old, some fresh, littered her skin. I traced the lines with the sponge, each stroke a silent vow of retribution for every mark not made by me.
