Page 42 of Claimed
Did someone break in?
The buyer?
Azz?
I want desperately to get out of this chair. To flee. But the binds are too tight.
The door opens softly.
I still.
Caine peers inside, sees I’m awake, and looks away as he walks to the end of the bed to grab his duffle. I watch him hoist it and shuffle to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him without a word.
I stare at the opaque glass.
There was no demon swagger. No smirk, just the inward hunch of someone in a lot of pain.
His silhouette is just visible, misshapen and not quite solid, through the gray wall. He tugs his shirt off and then shucks his boots and pants. One long arm reaches. The water runs.
My mouth goes dry and I shift in the stupid chair. A shower.
Of course he is taking a shower.
Maybe he was hurt. But there was no blood. Or none that I saw.
He climbs out of my line of sight.
I close my eyes, willing myself not to picture him under the hot spray as the sounds of him washing reaches my ears.
Or perhaps he isn’t hurt at all, and this is some new form of torture. Leaving me here while I visualize his black hair dripping water over his face. The rivulets flowing from his jaw, down his chest. Lower.
Biting my lip to stop my moan, I try to force the fire in my center away.
The water shuts off and I shake my head over and over to keep from looking. To keep from staring at him.
There is a soft creak.
My eyes fly wide.
Caine steps into the room as he dries his black hair with a towel.
Barefoot and clad in jeans and another black shirt, he looks like a rock star. Or a really hot, goth college guy.
He shakes his head and those midnight tendrils settle once more over his eyes.
Like … a really hot goth guy.
“Sorry,” he mutters, draping the towel around his neck. “Ruin said I can let you up. If you need to use the restroom or anything.”
My face heats. “So still prisoner status, then?”
“You feel like talking?”
I shake my head.
“Didn’t think so,” he says.
There is something scratchy about his voice. Something raw.
