Page 8 of The Chief's Captive

"I don't feel comfortable doing that."

"I don't care." My boxers drop, and I turn to face her. "You're a nurse. Act like it."

"I’m a trauma surgeon," she snaps, and her eyes lock with mine, an expression so vile I'd think she was one of us. I'm impressed and turned on. But I'm not a pushover.

"Good, you can stitch yourself up when I'm done tearing you to bits. Now get over here and help me." I turn and walk into the shower.

The water feels nice, a hot flow over my stiff muscles. Lying around constantly has made my body feel tense and overburdened. My skin is tender, and even my heart is resisting this bit of physical activity. As I feel my pulse thrumming past my ears I find myself grateful that bullet wasn't two inches lower and to the left. I know I'd never have survived a direct heart shot.

Maeve reaches into the shower and takes the shampoo bottle, waiting until I'm sufficiently wet and ready for lathering. Her skilled hands massage my scalp and wash my hair. Then I hand her a bath sponge and soap, and she lathers it up for me before leaving it in my hands and leaving me alone. But before she's out of the bathroom, I call her name and she stops to heed me.

"Your fire is something most women don't have. You'll need that in my world. Hold on to that." My compliment may not be seen as one, but it's what she'll get from me. I'm not generous with them, but she deserves it. She's pulling her weight even though she is resistant to me. Like the parable of the stewards, she's the one who refuses but goes and does it anyway. I'd rather havethem like this than to be the opposite—to say yes and then not follow through.

When I'm clean and relaxed, I step out of the shower and dry off as best as I can. I can't wrap the towel around my waist by myself, but having been on my feet now for fifteen minutes without needing help is a huge accomplishment. I don’t relish the idea of returning to bed, so when I walk back into the bedroom naked and I see her eyes flash with attraction then dart back downward, I decide not to climb into bed.

I walk across the room and carry my towel with me and sit down. "Clothes," I say firmly, and Maeve scurries to my dresser. She opens each drawer one at a time and pulls out boxers, socks, some slacks, and a T-shirt. My button-downs are all in my closet. She drops them onto my lap, and I can see she's still annoyed, but she needs to get over that.

"Go shower." I take the boxers first and wrestle with getting my legs in them. Maeve watches me struggling and does nothing.

"I'm not interested," she says plainly, and I scowl.

"It wasn't a question."

"I have no clean clothes, anyway." Her arms fold over her chest, making her tits push out. I love how she is so fucking stubborn, and I don't mind seeing the outline of her hard nipples against the silky fabric.

"I'll have them brought to you. Now go shower."

Maeve backs away looking angry, but she slinks off to the shower and I hear the click of the lock after she shuts herself in. It's going to be enjoyable breaking her, but I'll be gentle. She did save my life, after all.

6

MAEVE

The water feels good. I won't admit it to Ronan, but I've been wanting a hot shower for days. I feel gross. I've been wearing the same blood-stained nightgown and robe for a week, refusing to accept his provision for me on account of my being held here against my will. I think about the closet full of suits and skirts I have at home in my closet and feel anger rise to the surface at how he thinks he can control my every whim.

He won't even let me have my own room. The first two nights, I slept in a hard armchair and barely got any rest. My back and hips hurt constantly, and so he ordered me to sleep in bed with him when he watched me limping and holding my back. It was very comfortable the first night, even with me on top of the covers and him beneath, but for the time being, Ronan has been a gentleman. Though his eyes definitely betray his true desire.

I see the way he looks at me while I nurse him. He's not sleeping as much as he was before, and we've had times where we sat in perfect silence between us while he did business or read a book—brought to him by his faithful soldiers who also like to ogle myappearance. I want to be home, away from all this testosterone and the egocentric males who surround me. But until Ronan decides I'm not a threat, I'm stuck.

I reach up and grab the shampoo and lather my hair up. The suds wash down over my body, and I rub them into my skin and scalp. The heat relaxes my stiff muscles, and I want to stay beneath its flow for ages. This is the first moment of true privacy I've had since they took me from my home that morning. Even when I pee, I have to leave the door open. It's not like I can escape in here. There isn't a window, and the air conditioning vent is too small for me to fit.

This time, however, I locked the door and said nothing. He didn't protest. Either he has a key to get in if he wants or he is starting to trust me. I'm not untrustworthy, so I'm not sure why he thinks I'd do something sinister in here. The worst I could do would be to swallow soap or eat the toothpaste—both could be deadly, but I'm not looking for an escape. Yet.

The door handle jiggles and then I hear the lock click. Of course, they have a key. It pisses me off that I can't even shower in peace. One of his hulking men stalks in and snatches my clothing, leaving a towel behind. I cover my tits and turn my body away so he can't see me, though the glass is thoroughly fogged so I'm obscured, anyway. And just as quickly, the man retreats without even looking at me, as if Ronan has now given the order for them to not even admire my body.

I relax a little when he leaves and linger in the water as long as I can. When the flow begins to get cold, I turn the hot water knob up, hoping I can stay, but I've exhausted the water heater. If I remain here much longer, I'll be chilled through my core, so I shut the water off and step out of the shower onto the pale blue bath mat.

As I dry off, I think of how Ronan has actually been somewhat kind to me. He's human. He has mentioned his gratitude for my actions that saved his life, though he's never directly said thank you. I feel like these assholes don't know how to have a gentle tone or touch in anything they do. They all need mothers to soften their edges, or perhaps wives who round them out. But he hasn't hurt me either, unlike his men.

They likely do his bidding when they push me or knock me around, but it doesn't come from his hands. He hasn't laid a finger on me, which is more than I expected when they put that chloroform over my face and knocked me out. But I can't trust him, and I can't let him fool me into thinking I'll ever be happy or safe around him.

Home is where I need to be. Home is where I'm safe—far away from him, far away from his violent life, the crime… Back to normal, my job, my coworkers, my peace. I sigh and feel the tension coiling in my stomach again. Thinking about those things makes me wish I could escape, even if I have to leave everything behind and start a new life just to be safe. I will. I'm not stupid. They'll just come after me, anyway.

I use the towel to wipe the mirror off and stare at myself in the mirror. There is a blue handprint on my arm from where one of his goons yanked me around. The lump on my head isn't swollen anymore, but my scalp is tender. No woman should have to endure this for any reason. These men are lunatics, out of control. It only strengthens my resolve.

When Ronan is sleeping, I'm going to escape. I'll climb out a window or sneak out of his room and find a door. And I'll run. I'll go to my mother, and I'll take her somewhere. We'll empty my meager bank account and we'll hide. And as long as I say nothing, we'll be safe.

I hear noise on the other side of the closed bathroom door, and I stop thinking about listening. There are male voices, two or three. They're saying something about hunting someone, how they'll seek revenge for Ronan's shooting. My throat constricts, but I'm not surprised when he says not to touch a hair on this man's head, whoever he is. Ronan wants blood for himself. It only reconfirms what I already know. Ronan is the devil in disguise.

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