Page 39 of Writhe
Her trembling hands grip his shirt, her frail, shivering frame pressing into him as she gasps for air. Water drips from her hair, trailing down her pale skin, and I see the way his hands hold her steady. The way his fingers press against her bare flesh.
My vision darkens. She does not belong to him. Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m throwing the door open. The sharp slam echoes off the tiled walls, and every pair of eyes in the room snap to me.
Eliza’s, too.
Wide, panicked, filled with terror.
I soften my expression immediately, letting concern flood my features as I step forward. “What is the meaning of this?” I demand, my voice a commanding edge of righteous fury.
Frankie stiffens. “Doctor?—”
I cut him off with a single motion of my hand. “You dare touch her?”
His face flickers with confusion. “I was only?—”
“Insubordination,” I say smoothly, turning to the other orderlies. “Take him to the pit.”
Frankie pales. “Doctor, wait?—”
I don’t.
They move without hesitation, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him toward the door. He thrashes, protesting, but it is of no consequence. He will not touch her again. I’ll put him in with the fucking rats for touching her.
Eliza watches the scene unfold, her chest still heaving, her lips quivering from both the cold and the remnants of fear. She stares at me, searching for my face, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. I move toward her slowly until I’m kneeling beside the tub.
“Shh,” I soothe, cupping her delicate chin between my fingers, tilting her face toward mine.
She flinches, only slightly. But I see it—the hesitation. The doubt. I brush my thumb against her cheek, my voice gentle and warm. “You are so beautiful.”
She blinks rapidly; her body still wracked with violent shivers.
I lean in, my voice dipping to a murmur. “I will always protect you, my precious pet.”
Something in her tightens. Her lip’s part, but no words come out.
Does she believe me?
I slide my arms around her, lifting her effortlessly from the tub. I pull a thick towel from the bench and wrap it around her, bundling her small frame against my chest as I sit on the cold tile floor. She’s stiff at first—rigid—as though unsure whether she should resist or succumb to the warmth I offer.
So, I wait.
Minutes pass.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she sinks against me.
Her head falls against my shoulder, her body limps with exhaustion. Her breathing steadies, each exhale growing softer, her shivers easing as my warmth seeps into her frozen skin. I tighten my hold, pressing my lips to the damp crown of her hair. She’s asleep, allowing me to also close my eyes.
I am in too deep.
The first thing I register is the ache. A deep, relentless throb that pulses through my limbs like I got hit by a truck—no, scratch that, a freight train driven by Satan himself. My fingers twitch, instinctively seeking warmth, but instead of comfort, I get restraint.
Oh.
Leather cuffs bite into my wrists, keeping them bound above my head, forcing my body into a stretch that would be sexy if I weren’t the one suffering through it. My back arches slightly off the mattress, straining, testing—useless. A sliver of panic flickers through me, but the silk blindfold over myeyes keeps me from seeing, keeps me from confirming the reality of my situation.
I’m exposed. Completely bare.
Not ideal.
