Page 31 of Brutal Surrender

She’s right. I can’t give up so easily. I can’t fail Bella and the rest of my family.

It’s not like seeking death is going to be any easier. With my situation improved, I might get another shot at Vincent.

Encouraged, I help myself to the shampoo and start to wash my hair. I’ve never had short hair like this before and I imagine Isabella would mourn the auburn locks that she loved to braid for me. I dunk my head in the water, then apply the conditioner.

Idly, I wonder if Vincent treats his girlfriends or the women he sleeps with to baths like this. Is he actually nice to them, or does he just fuck them, then toss them aside as if they were used tissue?

I don’t know why I’m wondering about this. What matters is how he treated me. Torturing me, assaulting me, degrading me. And nothing will make up for that. Not a hundred luxury suites, floral-scented baths, or breakfast spreads.

He’s being nicer to me, probably because he hopes to get a better price for me. Looking sickly and beaten up, I won’t fetch him top dollar, that’s for sure.

The sponge grazes my mons as I wash my inner thighs. I recall how it felt to have Vincent fingering me. His digits are so long and deft. The way I imagine those of a pianist to be.

They felt so good against me, inside me. Given how torturous the waterboarding was, I would never have imagined that I could come like that. I wonder if I’ll ever again get to experience such a mind-blowing, body-blowing orgasm.

After what I’ve been through—I nearly died—I shouldn’t even be thinking such thoughts. But my body has a will of its own. It must be in heat. And maybe it’s worse because I’ve suppressed it with omega blockers for so long. Closing my eyes, I move the sponge along my folds, tickling my clit. I will forever hate Vincent for the orgasms he forced on me, but damn, they were incredible. It’s wrong to want to experience them again. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a slut.

I rub the sponge harder against myself despite the shame filling my body.

It’s ironic. The world needs Vincent’s omega blockers. It’s a product that grants omegas freedom, the ability to resist Alphas, not to have to be subjugated to them or one’s own desires. That such a good, valuable product should be produced and sold by a man such as Vincent Xu is like the opposite of poetic justice.

But if my body wasn’t as responsive, my orgasms wouldn’t have been so intense. I don’t think. I wonder how many orgasms I could endure at Vincent’s hands in a day? Six? A dozen if they were spaced apart well enough?

Feeling eyes on me, I open mine. Vincent stands at the doorway. Did he see what I was doing? I pretend to go on washing myself.

He walks over to the control panel. “You can turn on the jets from here.”

He demonstrates with a low setting. Is it crazy that my first thought is to spread my legs in front of one of those jets?

When I meet his gaze, I can see it. He knows. And he wants to do something about it.

Chapter 16

Vincent

There were a few bubbles keeping me from seeing all of her nakedness, but I saw enough. I know what she was up to, and it’s turning me on. I want to wade into that bathtub, clothes and all, and take over her masturbating. She wants it. So why not?

Her body may want it, but mentally and emotionally, she doesn’t. I told her my word could be trusted, and I meant it. I’ve kept all the promises I’ve ever made in my life, even in instances when it would’ve benefited me more to break them. Right now the temptation to do so is crazy strong. I almost wish for an attack of one of those headaches to distract me.

“I’m good,” she says, “and done with the bath.”

I grab a towel and open it for her.

“I’m capable of drying myself.”

I hold the towel to her. She gets up, a little too hasty in her attempt to get the towel from me, and becomes dizzy.

Wrapping the towel around her, I pick her up and carry her out. I set her in an armchair and get her a glass of water. Taking out my phone, I tell my staff to bring up electrolytes.

“You should try eating more,” I say.

“I may just want to go back to sleep.”

From the bathroom, I retrieve the bathrobe. I help her put her arms through. Removing the towel, I take in the sight of her breasts, her belly, her bush, and her thighs. I feel the need to adjust my crotch but refrain.

She pulls the robe closed. “It’s missing the sash.”

“You’re on suicide watch, remember?”

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