Page 39 of The Darkest Gift

"Glad to hear it," I reply, standing up. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, shall we? Can't have you going crusty on us."

I motion to Iris, who sets aside the now-gleaming knives in the open box on the side table and moves to help me. Together, we release Elijah from his restraints. His muscles are stiff from sleeping on the hard floor all night, and he winces as we help him to his feet.

"Easy now," I murmur, supporting him as he sways slightly. "Take it slow."

We guide Elijah to the en-suite bathroom, the marble floor cool beneath our feet.

"I'll go fetch some breakfast for our guest," Iris says, her lips curving into a smile. "Try not to have too much fun without me."

As she sashays out of the bathroom, I turn my attention back to Elijah. His muscles have loosened up during the short walk, the stiffness from sleeping on the hard floor gradually fading away. He holds still as I carefully unwrap the bandages from his wrists and ankles.

The marks from the restraints have faded to a dull red, no longer angry and inflamed. I run my thumb over the tender flesh, feeling Elijah's pulse quicken beneath my touch.

Without a word, Elijah steps into the shower, once again not bothering to ask for permission. The hot water cascades over him, turning his golden skin slick and glistening. He tilts his head back, letting the spray wash away the dried blood and cum from the night before.

I lean against the sink, arms crossed, watching him. "You know," I drawl, "most people would ask before using someone else's shower and this is the second time you haven’t."

Elijah snorts, running his hands through his hair to work out the tangles. "Most people aren't being held captive by psychopathic power couples," he retorts. "I figure social niceties went out the window somewhere around the time you tied me to your cross."

I can't help but chuckle at his sass. "Fair point," I concede. "Though I have to say, your manners leave something to be desired."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Elijah says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Would you prefer I curtsey and ask 'Please sir, may Iuse your shower to wash off the blood and cum you so graciously covered me in?'"

A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. "Now that would be a sight," I muse, picturing the scene. "Though I think I prefer you just as you are, pretty boy. Sharp tongue and all."

Elijah pauses in his washing, turning to face me fully. Water streams down his body, highlighting every curve and plane of his muscled form. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asks, his tone a blend of accusation and grudging curiosity. "The back-and-forth, the banter."

I consider denying it, but decide honesty might be more interesting in this case. "I am," I admit, meeting his gaze steadily. "You're clever, quick-witted. It's... refreshing."

Something flickers in Elijah's eyes at my admission, but it's gone before I can decipher it.

Elijah turns back to the spray, resuming his washing. As he does, a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. "Careful there, counselor," he says, his tone light but with an undercurrent of something deeper. "Keep talking like that and I might start to think you're getting attached."

His words hit closer to home than I'd like to admit. I school my features into a neutral expression, but I can feel a frown tugging at my brows. The truth is, Elijah isn't wrong. There's something different about him, something that sets him apart from our previous "guests."

It's not just his quick wit or his refusal to cower at our games. It's the way he challenges us, matches us barb for barb. The way he seems to understand us on some fundamental level, even as he fights against us. It's intoxicating in a way I hadn't anticipated.

I don't respond to his jab, my silence speaking volumes. Elijah's smirk widens slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. He's scored a point and he knows it. He finishes rinsing off, thenturns off the water and steps out of the shower. I hand him a plush towel, watching as he dries himself off with efficient movements.

When he's done, I gesture for him to sit on the edge of the bathtub next to the shower. He complies without argument, which is unusual enough to make me raise an eyebrow. Elijah just shrugs, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"What can I say?" he murmurs. "I've learned to pick my battles."

I kneel before him, retrieving the jar of soothing cream from the counter. As I unscrew the lid, the sharp medicinal scent fills the air, cutting through the lingering steam from the shower.

Gently, I take one of Elijah's wrists in my hand. His skin is warm and slightly damp from the shower, and I can feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers. I scoop out a dollop of cream and begin to massage it into the tender flesh around his wrist.

Elijah hisses softly as the cool gel makes contact with his skin, but he doesn't pull away. I work the cream in with careful, circular motions, my touch firm but gentle. As I work, I can feel Elijah's eyes on me, studying my face intently. The silence between us is charged, heavy with unspoken words and half-formed thoughts.

"You know," Elijah says softly, breaking the silence, "in another life, we could have been friends. Maybe more."

I pause in my ministrations, looking up to meet his gaze. Those icy blue eyes are uncharacteristically serious, the usual spark of defiance replaced by something softer, almost wistful.

"In another life," I agree, my voice equally quiet. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine it - meeting Elijah under normal circumstances, getting to know him over drinks and dinner dates rather than through kidnapping and torture. It's a surprisingly appealing thought.

But then reality crashes back in. This is who we are, who I am. There's no room for 'what ifs' or alternate timelines in our world.

I lead Elijah back into the bedroom, guiding him towards the St. Andrew's cross. He goes willingly, which is still a novelty. As I secure him to the cross, I'm careful not to make the restraints too tight. We want him uncomfortable, not in pain. At least, not from this.

---