Page 24 of Twisted Vows

Lightning arcs from my nipples to my core as he cups my breast through the fabric. I swallow my gasp and pretend the flush on my cheeks is from the heat of the water. The slippery washcloth may be more erotic than having his hands on me.

He doesn’t linger, giving my breasts a quick pass before lifting my arms and cleaning my armpits and sides. I stiffen as he turns me around. I’m not ashamed of the scars on my back, but my stomach twists as I imagine him reacting in different negative ways. After only a slight pause, he scrubs my back and butt before squatting and giving my legs a quick once-over as though my scars aren’t there.

Electricity sizzles along my nerve endings.

He offers me the washcloth and allows me to clean the juncture of my thighs before rinsing the washcloth and shuffling us around so I stand directly under the shower.

I brace myself on the wall and enjoy the downpour as he cleans himself in the back half of the tub. He’s so large he elbows the wall and curses a few times. A wave of mirth hits me, but I can’t laugh, not when I’m naked, wet, and blind in front of a killer.

A very sexy, confusing killer.

He scoots me into the corner and rinses himself before pulling me back under the spray and ensuring every bit of soap rinses off my body. An involuntary shiver wracks my spine.

He turns off the shower, yanks the curtain open, and wraps me in a towel before guiding me out of the tub. I wring the excess water out of my hair as he runs a second towel over my arms and legs.

An embarrassing squeak escapes my throat when he lifts me without warning and sets me on the counter. I clutch at my towel, needing something to do with my hands as he runs his fingers through my hair. His thighs brush against my knees with every shift of his body, and when he flips open the cap of a bottle and rubs his hands together with a squishy sound, I realize he plans to put a product in my hair. I don’t know what kind, but it smells fruity. My toes curl when he works his fingers over my scalp, but my blisters burn, so I force my feet to relax.

He fumbles with something for a moment before grunting in success when a hair dryer roars to life. I sit in mute surprise as he blow dries my hair. His chest brushes against my shoulder as he leans around me to reach my nape.

When he turns off the hairdryer, my ears ring in the silence.

I take a deep breath and hold it as he ties a new blindfold over my eyes, finally exhaling on a relieved sigh as he secures the knot.

He threads my arms into an oversized shirt, slips it over my head, and pulls the hem down over my towel, covering my torso without bearing my breasts.

“Sorry,mia caramellina, I only have so many clothes,” he says as he slips what must be gym shorts onto my legs.

I shrug. He lifts me off the counter. I grab his shoulders on instinct. He tugs the shorts over my hips as the towel slips to the floor. With deft movements that send my wayward libido into hyperdrive, he ties the drawstring and presses me back against the counter by my hips. My heart skips a beat as his massive hands linger on my curves.

Following his silent order, I lean against the counter as he moves around the bathroom.

When he cups my shoulders and guides me through the doorway in front of him, I hiss at the cold floor under my soles. My blisters pulse and part of me mourns the loss of his arms around me. Even though he captured me less than two days ago, walking on my own feels foreign.

I shove the feeling away and stumble forward, extending my arms in front of me just in case.

He huffs and scoops me into his arms. I ignore the happiness weaving into my soul as he carries me across the room.

Studies show it takes weeks for Stockholm syndrome to form, but maybe it depends on the severity of the situation. If so, it’s only logical my emotions are a wreck. Hell, he saved me from asphyxiating during my nosebleed, so even though it was his fault I couldn’t move, my heart views him as my savior.

It’s bullshit.

Except, what other criminal would shower with a naked and vulnerable woman and not molest her?

He sets me down in the chair. I grip the seat edges, using the soreness in my wrists and fingers as a reminder of his cruelties as he cleans the bed and starts the microwave.

When the smell of my sister’s cooking fills the air, my tears seep into the blindfold, but again, I don’t count it as crying. I’m allowed a few moments of sadness as I miss and worry about mysister. My mouth waters, so I count my leaking tears as a purely physical reaction, just like my overactive salivary glands.

He told me he was going to my apartment this morning, but I didn’t expect him to check inside the fridge. He probably also read the note she left me.

Neither one of us is comfortable texting each other, so we fell into the habit of leaving letters on the kitchen counter when we had news to share. It’s my favorite part of going home when I know Katherine won’t be there.

A sliver of doubt sprouts in my soul. We’ve always been careful not to tell anyone we’re sisters, but what if she slipped up in her note? What if he suspects we’re more than roommates?

No, she wouldn’t. We’ve developed a code of sorts in our letters. We’re both mindful of what we write.

When he sets several containers on the table and systematically opens them, I wonder if he plans to torment me. It would be the worst cruelty to make me sit and listen to him eating the food my sister poured her love into while not allowing me a single bite.

I jump at the unexpected noise when he cracks open a soda can.

---