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When I swing my legs over the side of the bed, I wince. If I had the energy to gasp, I probably would.
My thighs are covered in bruises.
So are my arms, my breasts, and—I’m pretty sure by the soreness—my ass. The one place I’m not covered in fingerprint-sized bruises and teeth marks is my stomach. Small favors, I guess. But instead of filling me with relief, this fact fills me with dread.
What does he know?Doeshe know?
There’s a note on the bedside table in a neat, masculine handwriting.Umnitsa—I was called away to attend to some personal matters. We will finish our business later.
So maybe he didn’t touch me? Small relief, but relief nonetheless. I still feel disgusting, and not just inside on an emotional level. My skin feels sticky, and damp in some spots. I reek of smoke and vodka. I itch in places that don’t make sense.
I don’t know what I’m covered in. I don’twantto know.
I want a fucking shower.
Thank God there’s a bathroom attached to the bedroom—and even more, that I’m all alone to do what I need to do. Which is shuffle across the room, stumble into the lavish bathroom, and fumble for the shower knob.
I wonder if I can get the water hot enough to burn the grossness off my body. And maybe my mind, too.
I step into fairly hot water and just stand there, watching the steam rise above the glass door and quickly fog up the mirror.
There are basic toiletries here, clearly meant for a man. I pop one of the bottles open for a sniff and immediately recognize Master’s scent.
No.
Absolutely not.
It was different with Demyen. I scrubbed my body in his scent to drive both of us insane with desire. And, sometimes, I did it just to feel safer. Closer to him, even. Being wrapped up in his scent was a constant reminder of how he was always around, always watching out for me, always making sure I stayed out of trouble.
It reminded me that Willow was safe.
I can’t bring myself to use this other man’s body wash. Not something so specifically his. At least the shampoo is more of a generic mint. I can deal with that.
I wish I could dissolve into steam and float away. It’d be so easy. No more Master. No more slavery. No more mind games or hidden drugs. No more brands or bruises on my body. I wouldn’t have to see how far that sick bastard takes things with me, how long he wants to prolong this nightmare.
But…
No.
No. I have Willow.
I have Willow and I have a responsibility to see this through for her sake. I have this baby growing inside me, too, who doesn’t deserve to suffer and die inside my womb just because I took the easy way out.
At the center of it all, I’m just done being everyone’s meek little poor girl.
I’m gonna survive—out of fucking spite if I have to.
It’s that thought that fuels the rest of my shower. I scrub every inch of my body with mint shampoo and rinse off with the matching conditioner. Sure, the water feels hotter than it probably should, but I won’t feel clean unless I can be sure everything has melted right the hell off.
I take my sweet time drying myself. I hate, so much that I have to use Master’s towels because that means I’m wrapping my body up in something that belongs to him. I hate even more how soft and luxurious they feel.
What is it with criminal dickheads and their linen thread counts?
There it is—that fire inside me I’ve been trying to keep lit through all this. The one that ignited at some point with Demyen when I decided I was done taking his shit. Or anyone’s shit.
When I exit the bathroom, it’s with renewed determination to give Master one hell of a fight.
But when I see what’s suddenly laid out on the bed for me, that second wind quickly flies from my lungs in a sigh of half-frustration, half-despair.
