Page 126 of Wicked and Claimed

“Don’t.” She jerked away, shaking her head. “Don’t touch me.”

She couldn’t take it without falling apart.

His eyes hardened, not with menace but with a firmness that willed her to understand. And logically, she did. But tonight proved that no matter which face he wore or which persona he portrayed, he had entirely too much power over her.

It terrified her almost more than anything else.

“Stop fighting. Stand still.” He grabbed a bougie bottle of shower gel and washed her from shoulders to toes before he whispered in her ear, “Let me make you feel good.”

Before she could say a word, he covered her pussy with his soapy hand and rubbed until she gasped and clawed, clinging to him as she fell over the edge of ecstasy again, shuddering in his arms.

As she came down from her second soul-stripping surrender, she closed her eyes, focused on the spray pelting her burning skin and not his achingly gentle, excruciatingly perceptive touch.

By the time he turned off the shower and wrapped her in a towel, she felt drained. And so very lost.

Back in bed, Nash pulled her against him. She stiffened, terrified he’d get under her skin and steal more of her soul. But she didn’t resist. She couldn’t. Appearances had to be maintained. But every point of contact felt amplified. His hand on her hip, meant to look possessive for their audience, felt like a brand. His breath against her neck made her want to scream. To sob in confusion.

Damn it, she was breaking apart, splintering inside. He’d seemingly used her body like a prop in his performance, and she’d still given herself over to him with barely a whimper. He certainly hadn’t tried to moderate, much less explain, before he’d stripped her down and seduced her. Why didn’t she have any defenses against this man?

Because, no matter what, he owned her heart.

God, was this what their relationship had come to? Him, stripping her down to her naked soul while he made all the decisions about her body, her safety, her life? This violation felt more invasive than his catfishing. Far more. That had been about getting close to her. This had been about using her, however noble his intentions. And yet…she’d still given all of herself—body and heart—to him.

She was a fool.

Beside her, Nash’s breathing remained too controlled for sleep. She felt the tension in his muscles. The strain between them.

Desolation overwhelmed her. Even if they escaped this island alive, would there be anything left between them worth saving? Or had their enemies already won by turning them into intimate strangers?

In the darkness, tears slid acid paths down her temples. And Nash, the man who once would have moved heaven and earth to stop her crying, did nothing at all.

* * *

At eight the following morning, an unexpected knock on the suite’s door made Haisley’s heart stutter. Nash’s gaze met hers, a warning in their depths. So he wasn’t expecting anyone this early, either. That hardly reassured her.

Nash opened the door to reveal the female doctor with the pristine white coat who’d examined Haisley her first day on the island. Her smile held all the warmth of a scalpel. “Good morning. I’m Doctor Haynes. I’ve come to administer your breeder’s first pregnancy test.”

“Already?” Nash’s casual tone belied the tension in his shoulders. “I haven’t even been here a week.”

“Regardless, we give these tests every Friday. They are state of the art, Mr. King,” Dr. Haynes explained, snapping on latex gloves. “We’re able to detect hCG, the pregnancy-related hormone, within seven days of conception.” Her clinical gaze raked over Haisley like she was examining livestock. “Assuming, of course, you’ve actually tried to get her pregnant. My understanding is that you’ve been fairly…lax in that endeavor. At least until last night.”

Ice slid down Haisley’s spine. As Dr. Haynes arranged her medical supplies with military precision, Haisley tried to bury her shock. These monsters really were monitoring their every move.

Nash pretended to lounge in a nearby chair, the picture of indifference. But Haisley saw his jaw clench when the doctor roughly grabbed her arm.

“Sit,” Dr. Haynes ordered.

Haisley glanced at Nash, who hesitated, then nodded.

He was right; she didn’t have a choice but to comply. Neither of them did.

On trembling legs, Haisley made her way to the couch and lowered herself onto the cushion. The doctor’s needle slid home with little warning. As her blood filled the vial, Haisley’s mind raced. Could she be pregnant from that awful night on stage? What would Nash think? Would a child conceived in such horror be a blessing or a curse? Could she confront her past without it breaking her?

As fragile as she felt right now, Haisley wasn’t sure.

While the doctor processed her blood through a handheld device, Haisley tried to catch Nash’s eye. He stared fixedly at silent football highlights, but his white-knuckled grip on the armrest betrayed him.

What was he thinking? Was he worried she was pregnant with a child he didn’t want?

---