He paused, as though he’d just found what he was looking for. Without looking at me, he used both his thumbs to administer the best and most relaxing wrist massage I’d ever had.
I didn’t want him to stop—that’s how good it was. For the first time, I didn’t see a cruel monster. Instead, I saw a physician, whose touch was gentle, steady, and soothing. The way he worked with practiced ease reminded me of the time he bandaged that man’s injured arm.
I saw the humanity in him tonight, and it warmed my heart in ways it shouldn’t. How could someone be an administrator of both pain and pleasure at the same time? He’d done this to me. Yet here he was, fixing the damage he’d caused.
Should I be worried, angry, or glad?
What did this gesture mean for me?
Was I still just a prisoner or something more?
As the silence stretched on for eternity, tension hovered in the air. I felt the intimacy between us, like a mistake neither of us was willing to make. I noticed the scar that cut along his cheekbone. It was faint. But it added to his ruggedness.
There was a story behind that, and maybe, just maybe, someday I might hear it.
“All done,” he murmured as he rose to his feet.
I flexed my wrist and could hardly feel the pain anymore. At this point, I wasn’t sure whether to thank him or act like I didn’t care.
He picked up the bowl and walked away without saying a word. At the door, he glanced back at me for a moment before stepping out.
I let out a quiet exhale after the door shut behind him, my heart pounding like a drum. He was gone, but his scent still lingered in the air—heavy and intoxicating.
Confused, I was torn between fear and the ache that I couldn’t explain. I wasn’t sure what I was in this mansion anymore, and the need to find out scared the shit out of me.
Chapter 10 – Artur
Vibrant lights sliced through the space, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and perfume. The music was loud, the bass causing the ground beneath my feet to tremble.
Half-naked pole dancers were entertaining us at the mini stage that dominated the center of my private booth. They moved their bodies to the music’s rhythm, performing jaw-dropping stunts on the pole.
These dancers were slender, gorgeous, and very sexy. There were five of them entertaining my cousin and me tonight, and they were all from different continents.
Europe. Africa. America. Asia.
One from each. Two from Asia.
I lounged on my couch, legs crossed, with my arms spread over the headrest. The ladies were pretty good at their jobs, and usually, I’d have already been lost in their performance.
However, tonight, I barely paid attention to them because while I was present in the flesh, my mind was lost. I couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss: how it made me feel, what it sparked within me, and the way she stared at me afterward.
Until now, the taste of her cherry lips still lingered on mine as a constant reminder of what I was missing. The idea was to mess with her, tease her, and make her crave me even more. However, it was starting to feel like that plan might backfire if I didn’t tread with caution.
I wanted her to want me, to be frustrated by her own desires. But right now, the reverse was the case because she was living rent-free in my head. What used to intrigue me was reduced to nothing, even though I tried to force myself to enjoy it.
My mind flashed back to the night I walked into her room while she slept. The way her waist was subtly writhing againstthe bed started a fire that almost consumed me. Luckily, I’d mastered self-control.
She must’ve been dreaming of something sensual, considering the quiet sounds coming from her lips. A part of me wanted to believe it had something to do with the kiss—the unfinished one. Yet I couldn’t torture myself with something that might just be false hope.
I remembered the look of embarrassment in her eyes when she woke up and found me watching her. She tried to hide it behind a straight face, but I could see right through her. She was ashamed, probably hoping that I didn’t hear anything.
When our skin brushed against each other while I cared for her bruises and pain, tension hung heavily in the air. The scent of her feminine perfume, mixed with shampoo and conditioner, drew me in like steel to a magnet.
I wanted nothing more than to finish what I’d started at the library. The fact that she didn’t feel repulsed by my touch was all the invitation that I needed. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to make a move, even though the success rate was 90%.
What’s the worst that could’ve happened? She could’ve pushed me away. She could’ve rejected me. Deep down, I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of embarrassment, especially because I was a huge fan of consent.
At this point, the line between prisoner and captor was beginning to blur. What was the nature of our relationship? Who was she to me? What was her purpose in my life?