Page 22 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
Lost to it.
I squeeze her hand, suddenly hyperaware of how she’s holding me, like she’s afraid I’ll slip right through her fingers.
"I'm okay," I tell her again, softer this time.
She doesn’t look convinced.
She just nods, once, but she doesn’t let go.
I dip my head back in the water and scrub myself clean, wishing I could scrub out my memories of the past two days—of doing this at all. If I had just stayed closer to the den, kept myself more secure, none of this would be happening. I would be back at home in the bathing pool with Charlotte and Maggie, sitting at the breakfast table with Mateo and Grant, taking stock with Will and listening to him talk about poetry…
I would be safe.
I bend my head and cry into the water, but just for a second. I don’t want Two to worry.
Two—the girl who isn’t even allowed to have a name.
Once I’m done, Two holds out a towel, waiting for me as I step out of the bath. I could dry myself, but she seems intent on taking care of everything—maybe because Ephraim told her to keep an eye on me.
It’s not like I have anywhere to go.
Not in this windowless room.
And I won’t hurt Two just to get away.
I take the towel from her and run it through my soaking curls, then wrap it around myself, waiting. Waiting for more instructions, more control, more of this horrible, suffocating ritual I don’t understand.
Two moves to the chair beside the tub and picks up something folded over the back.
She turns, holds it out to me.
"You’re to wear this," she says.
I take the fabric and frown, feeling the weight of it between my fingers.
White.
The cloth is soft, lighter than air, barely there at all. It’s a simple slip of a nightgown, the kind of thing a woman might wear on her wedding night—thin, delicate, almost lovely.
If I didn’t know better.
If I didn’t already feel like a sacrificial lamb, waiting for the knife.
I let the towel drop to the ground, my cheeks flushing scarlet, my stomach twisting.
Shame.
Futility.
I feel small, like a child again, like my mother is dressing me for Sunday service, for a family dinner, for something I don’t understand but know I won’t like.
Two lifts the gown over my shoulders and lets it fall.
The fabric is light as a whisper, brushing against my damp skin, clinging to every place I wish it wouldn’t.
It falls just past my knees, modest in theory, but the material is too thin, too sheer to be anything but humiliating.
I fold my arms over myself, shivering.
