Page 71 of The Tower

But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls his hand back, then sits up, leaving me cold and exposed and confused.

“Go ahead and shower,” he says. “I’ll wait.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, my temper flaring as I tug the sheet over me, willing myself to acclimate to this abrupt shift in demeanor. Last night, he was all heat and possession, claiming me with a ferocity that both frightened and thrilled me. Two seconds ago, he seemed warm and sweet, as if reveling in the memory with me. Now, he’s turned on a dime. Harsh and cold and distant. And I really don’t get it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, hating the neediness I hear in my voice.

“We’ll talk after you’re cleaned up,” he says, as if we’d been doing yardwork, and my thighs are caked with mud and not the evidence of everything we’d done last night.

Before I can press him, he slides from the bed, pulls on his trousers, and says, “I’ll order breakfast.”

He leaves the bedroom without a backward glance, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds like rejection.

I sit perfectly still, holding the sheet tight against me as I blink back tears I’m determined not to shed. I tell myself I’m pissed, not hurt. I don’t know him well enough to be hurt.

But if I’m not hurt, then what’s this horrible tightness in my chest?

With a sigh, I force myself out of bed, my body aching in a way I want to enjoy, but instead only makes me ashamed, especially when I see myself in the bathroom mirror.

My hair is a wild tangle that will take hours to brush out. My lips are swollen, my neck marked with the evidence of Liam’s mouth. Not to mention the finger-sized bruises on my hips, my wrists, my waist.

I look thoroughly claimed. Owned. Possessed.

And the most disturbing part is the tingle I still feel between my legs. I want more—and I’m terrified that not only will I have nothing else, but that he regrets last night completely.

The shower helps, washing away the physical evidence and soothing my body, though it does nothing for my spinning thoughts.

I’m towel-drying my hair when the door opens without a knock, and he steps inside. I start to protest—after all, I’m completely naked—then remember I don’t have the right. So instead I turn to face him straight on, not even trying to cover myself or the bruises and bite marks from last night’s sextivities.

His eyes skim over me, and as he lingers on the marks, I think I see something flash in his eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Or perhaps the pride of ownership.

I tilt my head and cross my arms over my breasts. “Like what you see?”

His eyes snap to mine, dark and heated. “Very much.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling the reverb of his words all through my body.

He’s holding a bundle, and now he sets it on the counter. My clean clothes—and a pair of slip-on sneakers. “I think they’re your size.”

“I—Thank you.” It’s stupid, but I feel a bit undone by the gesture.

He nods, then pauses as he turns to leave. “Breakfast will be here in ten minutes. Don’t let it get cold.”

I stiffen at the reminder of our deal. Everything. And that includes my obedience. “Yes, sir,” I say, intending it as a dig. But he just smiles, then shuts the door behind him.

I enter the connecting room nine minutes and fifty-five seconds later to find Grimm seated at a small table that’s been set up in the living area and is covered by every form of breakfast food imaginable.

Once I’ve settled in across from him, I reach for a croissant and the strawberry jam. It’s flaky and perfect, and as I lift it to my mouth, my stomach growls, reminding me of how little I’ve eaten in the past twenty-four hours.

“You should have some protein, too.”

I don’t even realize how annoyed I am with him until I snap. “So this is it?” I practically spit the words. “You fuck me, then order me around? Take a shower. Be on time. Eat three square meals a day.”

I stand, knocking my chair backward in the process, then toss my napkin down, which doesn’t have the dramatic impact I’m looking for since it’s just a flimsy piece of cloth.

My storm-out into the bedroom works better, and with one final hurl of vitriol—“you goddamn fucking bastard”—I slam the connecting door behind me. Then I collapse face-down on the mattress, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. And wishing I’d thought to storm out with coffee. Because now I’m stuck in here.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.