I stalk out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints behind me. A pile of clothes sits on the bed—an oversized t-shirt, boxer shorts, socks. The door has been pulled halfway closed, giving me a little dignity. I snatch them up and dress quickly.
Then I grab my pack and shuffle through it, making sure they didn’t take anything while I wasn’t looking.
I pull back the covers and crawl into the bed, wrapping myself in the sheets. It’s a weakness, this small surrender to comfort. But I need my strength for what comes next.
I close my eyes and picture the forest.
The green. The quiet. The freedom.
Sleep pulls at me. I fight it, thrashing against the sheets, the chain rattling with every movement. The bed is too soft. Too warm. Everything about this place is designed to make me forget what I am to them and what they’ve done. My body sinks into the mattress, craving the comfort even as my mind screams at me to stay sharp.
“Fuck,” I say into the pillow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I can’t let them break me, not with soap and soft sheets and hot water and a bed that feels like sleeping on a cloud.
I dream of a girl in a cave, alone, who forgot what it felt like to be warm.
10
Elias
Ilounge on the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, listening to the running water and the string of creative profanity coming from the bathroom. My neck still stings from where she wrapped that chain around it.
Nearly took my head off.
And it made me so fucking hard.
Yeah, I know, there’s something wrong with me.
A muffled groan drifts through the cracked door, followed by the steady patter of water and the clank of the chain hitting the tub. Our little captive is not a happy camper.
“Mmm, god, this soap,” her voice rings out. Then louder, making sure we hear: “Almost makes me forget I’m being held captive by four knot-headed assholes!”
I laugh. Fiery little thing.
I glance around at the others. They’re all just as tuned in to the sounds from that bathroom as I am, even if none of them will admit it.
She’s probably not trying to sound the way she sounds. She probably thinks she’s being tough and menacing. But those groans, the way she keeps moaning over the soap and the hot water. I’d bet anything that every alpha in this room is dealing with the same problem I am.
Silas sits beside me, his huge frame taking up two-thirds of the couch. Built like a goddamn fortress. Still as stone, those dark eyes fixed on the bathroom door like he’s trying to will her through the wall. Jaw tight, hands flat on his knees. He hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
Darius has his head in the fridge, pretending to look for something. Yeah, right. Hand frozen on the handle, attention zeroed in on that bathroom like the rest of us.
“You gonna close that fridge, Darius?” I call out. “Or are you just cooling off the whole damn house?”
He blinks, shaking himself out of it. “Fuck off, Elias,” he says, slamming the fridge shut.
Then there’s Archer, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Stoic as ever. He acts tough, but on the inside, that male is softer than he’d ever let on. Right now, he’s probably debating whether to check on her. Make sure she’s alright. Make sure the water’s warm enough.
Before I can give him shit about it, another moan drifts out from the bathroom. This one is longer. More drawn out. Every one of us stiffens, nostrils flaring.
“Christ,” I mutter, shifting on the couch. I’m starting to get light-headed.
Images of Blue flood my head. Her body under the spray, water running over her skin. Those blue eyes, defiant even, soaking wet and chained to a wall.
Fuck.
“You bastards can’t keep me here forever, even if you have soap that smells like peaches!” she shouts, followed by another guttural moan—the mouth on this female.