He would wait all night for the 'Paid, with interest.' text to come through on his cell, a small vindication for the slight female figure curled on his bed. As it was the only thing he expected, he slid the device onto a shelf in the bathroom. Rolling up the sleeves of his ruined sweater, Connor headed for the tub.
Everything about this suite was overlarge and the bathtub was no exception, made for two...maybe three, though Connor found he generally preferred not to split his attentions. Acknowledging as he started to draw the water that he would not be joining her in it this night, and wholly unaroused by metal looped into tile, the young man stood, rummaging through the linen closet for a stack of washcloths and something fluffy. Soothing. It'll probably still fuckin' hurt, he thought bitterly. The resultant violet towel was large enough to swallow the fragile form huddled on their bed. He peered out of the bathroom at her, concerned by the general lack of movement. Maybe she'd dozed off...more likely, she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her tormentors to return.
His father wasn't a good enough actor to pretend that morning that he hadn't known what condition she was in. Which meant Connor had been played, false information from his source fed by someone with a game to play, and that the pit no longer had any kind of chaperon, even a twisted one. If word got out...Green eyes closing at the thought, Connor shook his head.
He had to leave bad press in his uncle's hands. Focus instead on this one woman.
Steamy tendrils lifted from the basin. He ran a hand through his hair, considering ordering up some Epsom, rejecting the idea as he wasn't sure how fresh the blood he'd noted in her cell truly was. Then a bottle of painkillers, but she was out of it enough that he wasn't sure if they'd given her something...or if they'd simply neglected basic human needs like food and water.
Rage hit his blood and boiled. He shoved it away, closing the faucet like a physical stop-point, leaving the bath warm, but shallower than he would have liked. He'd sent the hounds in. He'd done what he could.
In the end, he decided he'd wait, call for what he needed to fix this after she'd bathed and was safely ensconced back on the bed. Connor set the hold temp on the tub's presets and rejoined her in the main suite.
When do I die?
One knee had joined her on the comforter when he heard the soft question. It stopped his breath. That wasn't how things usually went. Not a single person in his bed had ever asked him when he intended to snuff them out. He rather liked to think it wasn't a concern one had when seduced by boyish dimples and infamous charm. But then, he'd never brought home one like her, one abused and defeated.
He crumpled the comforter in his fists. "You will not be harmed here," Connor assured her, and then sighed. "The bath is warm, not hot. And...it may hurt in your current state."
Connor slid a hand under the coverlet to remove her slippers, an arm around her thin body, leaving the blanket to prevent skin to skin contact. Scooping her against him, he stood. How light she was, cradled in his arms like some broken, discarded marionette. For the first time since that hallway, an emotion stronger than anger clamored for attention in his head. "But I promise you--this place is safe. I will not hurt you, nor will anyone I allow under our roof."
Slowly, he settled her on the side of the tub, an arm around her to keep her upright. One hand eased upward, brushing the blanket aside and his thumb across a smudge on her fair cheek. "Believe that if you believe nothing else, sweetling."
He placed her feet in the water first, to gauge her approval of the temperature. Another sigh escaped his lips. The blanket had to go. "I'm removing the cover now," he warned, and gave it a gentle tug. By the time he'd settled her into the water and against the back of the basin, anger was back, because her body, the extent of her mistreatment...How dare they? Connor wasn't the kind of man to get queasy at the sight of torment--kind of not an option in his bloodline--but his stomach took a left turn anyway. She would've been a beautiful, laughing, spitfire of a woman, he'd bet money on it, or maybe a sweet, shy whip of a thing. And they'd marred her blue and purple and green, stripped her of whatever spirit had been, left her to suffer in solitude.
Beautiful things were meant to brighten one's world.
"What have they done to you?" and this time, the question was a loaded whisper. Briefly, he wondered if he'd have to join her anyway, merely to hold her upright. Instead, he kept one arm locked, opting for a tack he hoped would appear not to threaten. Grabbing the stack of washcloths, he pressed two into her hands. A third, Connor dipped into the water with his free hand, then pressed it briefly to her forehead. Gentle strokes moved over strands of limp, red hair without a thought to ask her permission.
Everything about this suite was overlarge and the bathtub was no exception, made for two...maybe three, though Connor found he generally preferred not to split his attentions. Acknowledging as he started to draw the water that he would not be joining her in it this night, and wholly unaroused by metal looped into tile, the young man stood, rummaging through the linen closet for a stack of washcloths and something fluffy. Soothing. It'll probably still fuckin' hurt, he thought bitterly. The resultant violet towel was large enough to swallow the fragile form huddled on their bed. He peered out of the bathroom at her, concerned by the general lack of movement. Maybe she'd dozed off...more likely, she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her tormentors to return.
His father wasn't a good enough actor to pretend that morning that he hadn't known what condition she was in. Which meant Connor had been played, false information from his source fed by someone with a game to play, and that the pit no longer had any kind of chaperon, even a twisted one. If word got out...Green eyes closing at the thought, Connor shook his head.
He had to leave bad press in his uncle's hands. Focus instead on this one woman.
Steamy tendrils lifted from the basin. He ran a hand through his hair, considering ordering up some Epsom, rejecting the idea as he wasn't sure how fresh the blood he'd noted in her cell truly was. Then a bottle of painkillers, but she was out of it enough that he wasn't sure if they'd given her something...or if they'd simply neglected basic human needs like food and water.
Rage hit his blood and boiled. He shoved it away, closing the faucet like a physical stop-point, leaving the bath warm, but shallower than he would have liked. He'd sent the hounds in. He'd done what he could.
In the end, he decided he'd wait, call for what he needed to fix this after she'd bathed and was safely ensconced back on the bed. Connor set the hold temp on the tub's presets and rejoined her in the main suite.
When do I die?
One knee had joined her on the comforter when he heard the soft question. It stopped his breath. That wasn't how things usually went. Not a single person in his bed had ever asked him when he intended to snuff them out. He rather liked to think it wasn't a concern one had when seduced by boyish dimples and infamous charm. But then, he'd never brought home one like her, one abused and defeated.
He crumpled the comforter in his fists. "You will not be harmed here," Connor assured her, and then sighed. "The bath is warm, not hot. And...it may hurt in your current state."
Connor slid a hand under the coverlet to remove her slippers, an arm around her thin body, leaving the blanket to prevent skin to skin contact. Scooping her against him, he stood. How light she was, cradled in his arms like some broken, discarded marionette. For the first time since that hallway, an emotion stronger than anger clamored for attention in his head. "But I promise you--this place is safe. I will not hurt you, nor will anyone I allow under our roof."
Slowly, he settled her on the side of the tub, an arm around her to keep her upright. One hand eased upward, brushing the blanket aside and his thumb across a smudge on her fair cheek. "Believe that if you believe nothing else, sweetling."
He placed her feet in the water first, to gauge her approval of the temperature. Another sigh escaped his lips. The blanket had to go. "I'm removing the cover now," he warned, and gave it a gentle tug. By the time he'd settled her into the water and against the back of the basin, anger was back, because her body, the extent of her mistreatment...How dare they? Connor wasn't the kind of man to get queasy at the sight of torment--kind of not an option in his bloodline--but his stomach took a left turn anyway. She would've been a beautiful, laughing, spitfire of a woman, he'd bet money on it, or maybe a sweet, shy whip of a thing. And they'd marred her blue and purple and green, stripped her of whatever spirit had been, left her to suffer in solitude.
Beautiful things were meant to brighten one's world.
"What have they done to you?" and this time, the question was a loaded whisper. Briefly, he wondered if he'd have to join her anyway, merely to hold her upright. Instead, he kept one arm locked, opting for a tack he hoped would appear not to threaten. Grabbing the stack of washcloths, he pressed two into her hands. A third, Connor dipped into the water with his free hand, then pressed it briefly to her forehead. Gentle strokes moved over strands of limp, red hair without a thought to ask her permission.
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
« Next Oldest | Next Newest »
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