Page 28 of Depravity

I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to piss him off, but I also refuse to give in. He may hold all the cards right now but if I’m clever, if I’m careful, there has to be a chance of me getting away.

He holds his hand out for me to take, and despite the voice screaming in my head I do it, allowing him to pull me up. With my other hand I keep the duvet wrapped around my body, not that he hasn’t seen me enough for it not to matter.

“You didn’t wash.” He says after studying me for a moment.

I shake my head.

He tuts, yanking the cover away, and then all but frog marches me into the bathroom.

“I have something special planned for us tonight. But first, you need to clean yourself up.”

He’s right behind me, towering over me as I face the oversized shower. He honestly thinks I’m just going to jump right in there? With a huff that tells me he has lost all patience, he shoves me in, turning the tap on, and freezing cold water suddenly rushes down onto me as I scream.

“It’ll warm up in a second.” He says as he grabs a bottle and a loofah.

Before I can protest further he’s covering me in suds, scrubbing at my body, and focusing far too much on my breasts for my liking. I step back, glowering at him and in retaliation he tosses the loofah, grabs my throat in one hand and proceeds to haphazardly clean me with the other.

The way he’s holding me forces the water right down onto my face, and it feels like I’m being waterboarded. I don’t know if it’s intentional. I don’t know if it’s just a fluke, but the last of my resistance dies as I struggle with the very real prospect of drowning.

Then as quickly as it began, he turns the tap off, grabs an overly fluffy white towel and wraps me up in it as though I’m a child.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I bite my tongue painfully hard to stop the retort, because I’m meant to be playing nice. Being smart, though it feels near impossible right this second.

He yanks me back out into the bedroom, leaving me there while muttering under his breath about how his suit is now ruined.

When he comes back in, he tosses something at me, and I only just catch it as he tells me to put it on.

It’s slinky, delicate, and from the feel of the fabric, more expensive than my entire wardrobe combined. I hold it up, noting the silvery pearl colour. It’s a shift dress; long, strappy, backless. I’ve never worn anything even half as revealing as this.

“I, I don’t have any underwear.” I say, hating the way my cheeks flush. I shouldn’t be the one ashamed, he should be.

He runs his eyes over me, and then that smug smirk takes over his face. “You don’t need any.”

Excuse me? I blink back in shock.

“I want you easily accessible. Ready for whenever I have the need to take you.”

Dear god. He’s not serious, he can’t be.

I shake my head, trying to form any sort of argument. “But, what, what if I’m on my per-per-period? I’ll need underwear then.”

He tuts back. “With any luck, you’re already pregnant.”

No, no, no fucking way. That’s the last thing I want. The last thing I could handle. I’m twenty-one. I don’t want to have a child, I’m barely an adult myself, why the fuck would I want to be a parent already? I want to live. I want to travel. I want to…mylegs start to tremble, my breath catches, and I fight desperately to keep the panic inside me.

“Put it on.” He says more forcefully.

I focus on those words, on that voice as much as I hate it, using it to ground me as I unwrap the towel and do as I’m told. The fabric is even more incredible against my skin. It clings to me, highlighting every damn inch and I know my nipples are poking through, Worse, I know he’s more than aware of it too.

He watches me for a moment more before he starts stripping off his now ruined suit. I try to avert my eyes; I hate the way my cheeks flush even more, and I feel like a child compared to the sheer brute of this man before me.

He’s chiselled, toned, devastatingly beautiful and I hate him even more for that. I don’t want to be attracted to him, I want to be repulsed by everything he is. But he’s all muscles, all strength. He must spend days in the gym, and it doesn’t escape me how futile it is to fight this man. He could crush me in an instant. He could shatter my bones with very little effort on his part.

But what makes me frown is the tattoos. His entire torso is covered in them. They wrap around his chest, his arms, and he looks more like a criminal than a Brethren Lord.

“Like what you see?” He asks in a voice that makes me whimper in fear.

---