Page 31 of The Darkest Gift

He snorts softly at that, shaking his head as he moves to use the facilities. I turn away, busying myself with retrieving a jar of soothing cream from the medicine cabinet. When I hear the toilet flush and then water running, I turn back.

I'm greeted by an unexpected sight. Elijah has stepped into the spacious glass-enclosed shower, the door left deliberately open. Water cascades over his lithe form, steam beginning to curl around him like a lover's caress.

For a moment, I'm caught off guard. I didn't give him permission for this. But as I watch rivulets of water trace the contours of his muscles, I find I don't mind the view.

I lean back against the marble sink, crossing my arms as I drink in the sight before me. Elijah tilts his head back, letting the water slide over his face and throat. Droplets cling to his long lashes, sparkling like diamonds in the soft light. His hands move languidly, soap-slicked palms gliding over golden skin.

"Enjoying the show?" Elijah's voice cuts through the steady patter of water, a hint of challenge in his tone.

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Immensely," I purr, making no effort to hide my appreciation. "Though I don't recall giving you permission for a shower."

Elijah turns to face me fully, water streaming down his chest and abs. A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "My apologies," he says, not sounding sorry in the least. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of hosing me down like a prized stallion."

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. His quick wit is refreshing, a welcome change from the usual terror or sullen silence we encounter in our "guests." It's part of what drew me to him in the first place—that sharp tongue and sharper mind, wrapped up in such an exquisite package.

"How considerate of you," I drawl, letting my gaze wander openly over his body. "And here I thought you were just putting on a show."

Elijah's laugh is low and rich, a sound that sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Can't it be both?" he asks, arching an eyebrow as he runs soapy hands down his torso. "I am a man of many talents, after all."

I hum appreciatively, watching as his hands dip lower, skimming over his hips and thighs. "So I've noticed," I murmur, my voice dropping to a seductive purr. "You've certainly kept us entertained these past few days."

A flicker of something—pride? arousal?—flashes in Elijah's eyes. "High praise, coming from you," he says, his tone a mix of sarcasm and genuine pleasure. "I do aim to please."

He lathers up slowly, his movements deliberate and sensual. It's clear he knows exactly what he's doing, putting on a performance for my benefit. His hands glide over once again his chest, down his abs, lower still. My eyes follow their path, drinking in every detail.

"You know," Elijah says conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather rather than him showering naked before me, "most people would consider this a violation of my rights. Holding me against my will, watching me shower without consent..."

I quirk an eyebrow, intrigued by where he's going with this. "And what do you consider it?"

He pauses, tilting his head back to rinse the soap from his hair. Water slides down his throat, and I find myself following a particularly enticing droplet as it trails down to his collarbone.

"Honestly?" he says finally, meeting my gaze. "I'm not sure anymore. This whole situation is so far beyond normal that I'm not even sure what to think."

There's a vulnerability in his admission that catches me off guard. It's a rare glimpse behind the mask of sarcasm and bravado he usually wears.

"You're handling it remarkably well," I observe. "Most people would have broken by now."

Elijah shrugs, the movement causing water to ripple across his shoulders. "Maybe I'm already broken and just don't know it yet."

The statement hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken implications. For a moment, I'm tempted to push further, to see just how deep that crack in his armor goes. But something holds me back.

As I watch Elijah rinse the soap from his body, I'm struck by a pang of... not quite regret, but something close to it. In another life, under different circumstances, Elijah could have been more than just our latest conquest. He's sharp, quick-witted, able to match us barb for barb even in the most extreme circumstances. It's refreshing, in a way that makes me almost wish things could be different.

I find myself appreciating not just his physical beauty, but the strength of his spirit. That sharp intellect, the quick tongue, theability to keep up with our banter even as we pushed him to his limits. There's a fire in him that refuses to be extinguished, no matter what we throw at him. In many ways, he's the perfect match for us—a worthy adversary, a delightful plaything, and a fascinating puzzle all rolled into one exquisite package. I wonder if that would last if given the opportunity.

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine a world where we could keep him. Where instead of 12 days of exquisite torture and pleasure, we could have months, years even. I picture him joining us for dinner, engaging in spirited debates over fine wine. I imagine him in our bed, not as a captive but as an equal partner in our dark games.

But that's not our way. We have our traditions, our rules. Twelve days, no more, no less. It's what keeps us safe, what allows us to indulge our darkest desires without risking exposure. And yet...

Elijah turns off the water, the sudden silence snapping me out of my reverie. He stands there for a moment, water dripping from his body, steam curling around him. His eyes meet mine, and I see a flicker of understanding there. As if he knows exactly what I've been thinking.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, his voice low.

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Trust me, pretty boy, you don't want to know what's going on in my head right now."

He steps out of the shower, droplets of water trailing down his body in rivulets that I find myself wanting to trace with my tongue. "Oh, I don't know about that," he says, a hint of challenge in his tone. "I think I might find it quite illuminating."

I hand him a towel, but instead of immediately drying himself, Elijah takes his time. He starts with his hair, rubbing the thick strands vigorously until they stand up in damp spikes. Water droplets fly from the ends, splattering against the marble countertop and mirror.

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