Page 43 of Little Blue

I set the shower, strip, and step under a scalding spray with the intention to burn his touch from the memory of my flesh.

It doesn’t work.

I don’t suppose even hellfire can burn away the touch of the devil.

Nineteen

Irelynn

I dally in the bathroom far longer than anyone in need of a shower should. I can’t help myself, though. The anxiety I feel at the thought of going out there to him is—well, it’s too much.

With every passing minute, that anxiety grows.

It’s a problem. A big, huge, massive problem. A double-edge sword, if you will. Because I know I have to go out there. It’s not like I can sleep in the bathtub, though that’s looking more and more like a pleasant-ish option the longer I linger. Still, I know I need to buck up and open the door. I know I need to hold my chin high as I join the devil in his bed. I know I must do this and yet—I can’t.

Another minute passes, like all the minutes before. My anxiety grows.

I feel crippled by it as I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, nibbling the ever-loving life out of my bottom lip. It’s going to be raw, but whatever. I can’t stop.

I also can’t make myself go out there. Not in his big white button-up shirt that, although soft, is a million sizes too big. And smells like him.

And—shoot.

I feel unravelled. Tender, and emotionally exposed.

Heaven knows I’m physically exposed, being that I’ve been kidnapped by a murdering (self-proclaimed)—I, thankfully, have yet to see evidence of this, lunatic.

But I’m also starting to get cold. The kind of cold that makes the thought of sleeping in the bathtub downright torturous.

I need to pull my big girl panties up and go out there. The problem lies in the fact he took my panties with him when he swiped my jammies from the vanity. I’d seriously considered putting my dirty undies back on—but that’s just—no.

With one last big breath, I march from the toilet to the door. Before I can reconsider, as I’ve done one-point-six million times, I unlock the door and swing it open. The devil—that’s what he is—is sitting in bed with a laptop on his lap.

He’s trying to look human.

He’s not.

I know better.

Marching from the bathroom to the closet, I stomp my ass inside and even though I give thought to putting my own clothes on, I reject the idea under threat of being ravished.

I do, however, pull on a clean pair of panties.

That walk from bathroom to closet where his blue eyes tracked me and my thankfully out-of-sight bare under bits had been harrowing.

The man is like a wolf. A devil wolf. One lunge and I’m—well, ravished.

As soon as I exit the closet, I feel his eyes on me. They’re heavy and bordering on suffocating. Maybe that’s why I feel like the air is suddenly thin. Like I can’t quite pull a full breath into my lungs.

God, this is weird.

I’ve never shared a room with a man before. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

“Smart move, Little Blue.” He’s praising me, but I sense disappointment.

Frowning, I feel my eyes slide to him before I can command my brain to look elsewhere. Ahhhmigawd, he’s closed his laptop and he’s still shirtless.

Cautiously, I continue my path around the bed. I can’t help but shoot my cat a glare, because although he has nine lives, and he’s clearly okay with spending them on this man—I’m not.

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