Page 45 of Unorthodox
He pauses, his fingers hovering over my skin. “Do you think I’m going to hit you?” he asks me quietly.
I can still taste the bile in my mouth, I feel the warmth of humiliation on my skin.
I can still see Ben’s head. Hear the gunshot. Feel the tiles of the shower against my back as he slammed me against the wall.
“Max,” I say honestly, looking up into his eyes, trying not to think about the fact that my own vomit is coating the inside of my mouth, that tears are pouring down my face, “I think you’d do anything you wanted, without question.”
His expression is unreadable, but his fingertips skim across my jawline. He pulls me closer with the arm around my waist.
I stiffen against him, wondering what wires are crossed in my brain that makes me crave this lighter touch, even after his punishment.
I wonder if my uncle made me this way, if my father did this, or was Ibornlike this.
I think about the deal I made with one of my father’s men. My freedom in exchange for sucking his dick. I was terrible at it, a clumsy sixteen-year-old girl whose only experience consisted of what she’d been taught as a child. Even my father hadn’t yet made me do that.
But I did it.
In the end, my father caught me, beat me, and I never saw that man again.
I wonder if he would have actually let me go.
I wonder if there are actually good men in the world, and if there are, if any of them could possibly love someone like me.
“You’re right,” Max says as he stares at me. “But I meant what I said. If you listen to me, I’ll take care of you. You’re not a prisoner here. You’re in my charge.” Suddenly, he drops his hand, steps back, and nods toward the sink. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be in your room.” His eyes catch on the razor on the sink, then shift to my arm, which I quickly put behind my back. He says nothing, but grabs the blue razor, and he takes it with him when he walks out, closing the bathroom door behind him.
I stare at that closed door for a long moment.
I want to scream.
To destroy something.
To claw my own skin off and scrub myself free of his touch. Of Ben’s. My father and his men.
Danik.
Instead, I brush my teeth until my gums bleed, spitting pink in the sink. Not once do I look in the mirror, afraid of what I might find staring back at me.
I take a deep breath, steel my spine and open my bathroom door with shaking hands.
Then I walk into my bedroom, and my breath catches in my throat.
Max is sitting on the edge of my bed, which isn’t highly unusual, considering he came here after my long, torturous days with Ben. He’s got his shirt off, his shoes and socks, too, and he’s only in his pants, which are unbuttoned, his belt undone but still threaded through the loops.
But it’s his posture that’s the most shocking thing. I’ve never seen him anything but rigid, calm, and controlled.
Now, though, his elbows are resting on his thighs, his head in his hands, and he doesn’t look up, even though I know he had to have heard me. The room isn’t huge, and the bathroom is right across from the bed, light spilling into the room.
Strangely, the way he’s sitting…it looks like a moment of weakness.
I see the muscles in his shoulders, scars down his arms, over his hands. His fingers are threaded through his dark hair.
I shift on my feet, leaning against the doorway, scared to come closer without him looking up or noticing me. It’s never good to sneak up on a predator.
I glance at the closed door to the bedroom, think about Dante in the hall for the first time since he left me in the bathroom.
I hope I didn’t get him in trouble, but I wonder how much trouble he’d risk for me. So far, it seems like exactly none.
My eyes find Max again, waiting for his next command, and it’s only then that I realize…he’s snoring.
