Page 62 of Captive Prize

She pressed her hand to my chest to stop me. “I don’t need you here.”

“I don’t care.” I effortlessly lifted her into my arms, ignoring the way she cursed at me and tried to fight me. Her hits were featherlight compared to what they were earlier.

Zoya wasn’t as strong as she liked to think she was.

She struggled for a moment, then gave up, her skin pressed against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, and it made me feel… needed.

I liked it more than I should have.

Zoya was so light in my arms, it was disturbing. No one had taken care of this woman. No one had ensured that she was properly medicated, fed, tended to.

Why the fuck did I want to take on that responsibility?

I stepped into the steam-filled shower, the water already hot, the scents of soap and iron mingling in the steamy air. She tried to twist out of my arms, but I tightened my grip around her.

“Stop fighting me.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

She stopped and collapsed back in my grip. Not because she was willingly obeying me. She would never fucking obey.

That was fine, because her body would always tell me what I needed to know. Right now, it was too weak to stand on its own, and more than that, she wanted to be in my arms.

Zoya wanted to be taken care of.

Even if she would rather die than admit it.

Gently, I set her down on her feet, directly under the hot water, back facing me. She swayed, and before she could topple over, I put my hands on her hips and held her steady.

I shifted one hand to her waist, the other cupping a shoulder to anchor her and let the hot water cover her body. It ran a rusty brown over her skin and down the drain.

For the first time since she woke up, her body trusted me before her mind did. She didn’t pull away; she didn’t knock my hands away. Zoya accepted my help, and some primal part of me deep down inside purred with satisfaction.

I wondered if she knew how unwise that was.

I threaded my fingers through her hair, careful with the bandage but not with the pressure. She liked my hands on her, even if she pretended otherwise. She leaned into me like it was instinct. Like she already knew who she belonged to.

Her breathing changed. What were once deep, even breaths came out in short, sharp inhales.

As I worked the shampoo through her beautiful blonde hair, she relaxed. Her hand reached out, pressing against the cold tiles, but she didn’t move away from me.

She melted back into me. Letting me wash her hair, massage her scalp, and I watched over her shoulder as her nipples hardened even more, her eyes sliding closed, her lips parting.

Would she moan like that when I had my mouth on her cunt, drinking down every whimper she swore she’d never make?

Would her breath stutter like this when I filled her so deep, she couldn’t think? Fuck, I needed to know.

Would her tits rise on every one of her short, shallow breaths like that when I ate her pussy?

I bet they would.

My untouched virgin warrior was enjoying this, and if I reached down and petted that tight cunt, there was no doubt in my mind I would find her ready for me.

Soon, maybe I’d give her what she wanted.

But right now, I needed to give her what she needed.

I was careful, methodical as I scrubbed her hair, and then tipped her head back under the rainfall showerhead to rinse all the shampoo from her now clean blonde locks. Never letting a single sud touch her bandage or get near her eyes.

The entire time, Zoya didn’t move. She didn’t flinch; she accepted my touch.

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