Page 129 of The Cursed Kingdom

Mason leads me past the spare bedroom and into the bathroom beside it. It’s a large room with a walk-in shower along the entire back wall, a toilet to the left, and a double sink on the right. It looks unused, with nothing personal on any of the surfaces.

“She’s fine,” Mason says. “Stop asking about her.”

That’s not comforting. Mason’s version offineis wildly different from mine, and I want to know which one she is. I hope it’s mine.

“You need to calm down,” Mason continues. He finally releases me, and I press myself against the opposite wall as he walks toward the shower. “You’re hyperventilating and bleeding, and you haven’t formed a complete sentence in minutes.”

Who cares? He understands what I’m trying to say.

Mason turns the shower on and grabs an oversized white towel from underneath the sink. Is he planning on showering right now? Or making me? He’s a fool if he thinks I’m going to do so willingly.

“I’m going to leave the room,” he finally says, turning toward me. “You’re going to shower. Then you will wrap your wounds and change into the clothing I’m going to set on the sink here.” He points to an empty spot on the counter. “Then, once you’re no longer babbling and screaming like an infant, I will speak to you.”

I fucking hate Mason.

He opens the shower door and removes a straight-edge razor from the built-in shelf. He leaves the glass containers, though, which I assume are filled with different types of washes.

“If you try to run away, I will hear you. If you try to hurt yourself, I will hear you. If you try to—”

“I get it!” I snap, interrupting him.

I know precisely what Mason can do. He forgets that I’ve seen his animal form. I know what it feels like to have his teeth snapping inches from my face, and I know what it feels like to have him attack me when I run away.

My scarred knees remember.

Mason works his jaw side to side, his eyebrows furrowed, before leaving the room. He slams the door behind him for good measure. I stare at the wood, struggling to form complete thoughts, before ripping off my clothing and stepping into the shower.

This isn’t a fight I think I will win, so I might as well play along.

The water is warm, but I don’t let myself enjoy it as I rush to scrub my body clean. I’ve been looking forward to showering for weeks, fantasizing about how good it will feel to have hot water running over my sore muscles.

I can’t remember the last time I felt truly clean.

The water is brown by the time it travels down my legs and swirls into the drain, and it takes three rounds of washing before it remains clear. I want to hurry, but I suspect Mason will force me to shower again if I’m not entirely clean when I emerge from the bathroom.

He’s made enough comments about my body odor that I know it bothers him.

The dozens of cuts and scrapes littering my body burn, and I’m careful not to rip open the scabs on my knees as I clean the skin around them.

Fatigue is quickly setting in, and I turn the temperature down when I find myself relaxing just a little too much. The sharp bite of the frigid water keeps me alert, and my teeth are chattering by the time I finally finish.

The towel is on the sink where Mason left it, but now there’s a change of clothes, a first-aid kit, and a toothbrush beside it. Ilook around, ensuring the bathroom is empty, before hurrying forward and wrapping the towel around myself.

The soft fabric feels good against my skin, and I clutch it to my chest as I peer at the clothing Mason has provided. There’s a pair of black sweatpants and a black shirt, both of which look to be several sizes too large. These must be his.

I suppose I should be relieved he didn’t bring me leftover articles of clothing from women he and Kie have slept with. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a drawer full of trophies.

I dry myself and brush my teeth before applying the ointment and bandages Mason provided. The cut on my thigh doesn’t look great, but I’m not concerned. It’s going to leave a nasty scar, but it isn’t going to kill me. I’ve dealt with worse.

Mason’s clothing hangs from me, and I roll the sweatpants four times to keep the legs from pooling at my feet and dragging along the ground.

I wasn’t provided underwear, a bra, or socks, and Mason removed my dirty clothes so I’m forced to go without. The only items of mine he left behind are my gloves and the condom I stole from the bedside drawer earlier, and I can only imagine the laughter he got at my expense when he found it.

Still, I shove the condom into my pocket before slipping on my gloves. A weapon is a weapon, and I’m not in a position to complain.

The mirror above the sink taunts me, and only once I’m entirely dressed do I look at my reflection.

My skin has lost all its usual color, and the fat deposits that keep me looking healthy have vanished. It pairs well with my sunken eyes and chapped lips, though. I look hollow—and about five minutes away from death.

---