Page 21 of Red Dreams

“Your gratitude is nothing I deserve,” he murmurs as he shifts his weight off me, his breath stalling as he lifts his injured leg.

I shake my head, denying the subtext that this is his fault, not trusting myself to speak past the lump in my throat. Instead, I watch as Kaden remains on his knees and shrugs out of his T-shirt, gripping the collar and peeling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. A lifetime of conditioning allows him to power through the discomfort.

I can't help but stare, transfixed by the shift of his muscles beneath his olive skin. His sculpted chest is a work of art, all hard planes and ridges, decorated with scars and tattoos. A dangling square of gauze barely holds on at his shoulder, revealing the puckered, starburst wound he received from Cassie’s bullet. There’s another thin, precise line curving aroundhis ribs, too clean to be anything but a knife. And a jagged gash across his right pectoral, angry, red, and recent. But what calls to me the most is the smattering of dark hair trailing down from his navel and disappearing into the waistband of his pants.

I’m prevented from losing any remaining saliva I have left by drooling when Kaden holds the shirt out to me, his expression unreadable, save for his eyes holding on to mine.

“Here,” he says, his voice rough. “Put this on.”

Rising into a pained sit, I reach for the offered garment with a trembling hand, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is electric, improper in this environment yet refusing to leave. I clutch the shirt to my chest, the fabric still warm from his body heat.

Averting my gaze, I slip my arms into the sleeves, ignoring the scream of my newly freed muscles at the movement. The collar catches on a gash across my cheekbone, and I wince, a small sound escaping through my teeth.

Kaden's hands are there in an instant, his touch gentle as he helps guide the shirt over my head until it pools at my thighs.

“Thank you,” I whisper once more.

I’m not just thanking him for the shirt, and he knows it.

His jaw clenches, and he gives a curt nod instead of denying the gratitude this time, his eyes raking over me and cataloging every remaining visible injury.

I pull the sleeves as low as they can go and wrap my arms around myself, savoring the sensation of being clothed and shielded from the voyeuristic gazes of Cassie’s men.

It wasn’t always Cassie who visited this room. Sometimes she’d send others to shove a water bottle against my lips, tilting it so most of it streamed down my chin instead of going in my mouth. A few would leer, quipping that soon it would be their cum dribbling down my face when they finished fucking my mouth.

It never happened. I’m grateful for not having to endure such indignity, but to begratefulto anyone in this situation messes with my mind, with what is good versus what’s terrible. I’m experiencing shades of gray I never thought possible.

Kaden doesn’t look away, watching every thought play across my face. Not once does he break his stare despite the clear effort it’s taking to control his expression.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he vows.

He pushes to his feet with a grunt and prowls around the suite, his weight distributed unevenly to avoid aggravating his injuries. The corded muscles of his back ripple beneath his skin, and I swallow.

Leave it to Kaden to quench my thirst when I’ve been nothing but parched for days. I don’t miss the chance to drink him in.

His keen gaze sweeps over every inch of the space, searching for any weakness, any chance at escape.

The walls are a rich, dark wood, polished to a high shine that reflects the light from the antique lamps and sconces. Intricate carvings of sirens and sea monsters dance along the edges of his fingers as he tests for hidden catches or loose panels but comes up empty.

I want to tell him I’ve shuffled around this room what seems like hundreds of times, and though I didn’t have the freedom of my hands, it didn’t take long to become certain Cassie wouldn’t leave me in a room with an escape hatch. But after an eternity of staring at nothing but this suite or Cassie’s cold face or sneering men, watching Kaden’s defensive skills and the grace with which he moves is nothing short of a gift.

He moves to the windows next, floor-to-ceiling panes of glass that offer a breathtaking view of the town’s skyline. The lights of Greycliff twinkle like fallen stars against the inky black of the night sky, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs is a mocking reminder of the freedom that lies just out ofreach. Kaden tests the locks, the hinges, even the glass itself, but it's all reinforced and impenetrable.

Frustration emanates from him in palpable waves as he stalks to the far side of the room. But then he pauses, his posture going rigid. I follow his gaze to see what caught his attention. A door, nearly hidden in the intricately carved wall paneling.

He glances back at me.

I answer the question in his eyes. “The bathroom.”

Quickly, I break our connection, staring at the carpeting beneath my feet. On occasion, I was dragged into that decadent en suite, shoved into the shower, and sprayed down like an animal with ice water. Other times, I was pushed onto the toilet and told to relieve myself on command. At first, it was difficult, the humiliation so much that my bladder refused to comply. But it didn’t take long to overcome once necessity overtook dignity.

Kaden studies my face for a long moment, reading the unspoken trauma behind my features. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the surface before he takes a deliberate step toward me.

“Wraithling,” he says softly, his velvet baritone caressing my name. “Come here.”

My throat constricts, but slowly, I get to my feet.

His large, calloused hand engulfs mine as he leads me to the bathroom.

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