Page 26 of Silenced

Not only that, he’s massive, bulky with muscles that even in the peak of health, I wouldn’t be able to fight.

Harvey’s not muscular, but he’s taller than me, stocky with the weight he gained once depression took him in a chokehold. I can never win in a fight against him, never mindthisguy who makes Harvey look like a sapling and who hauls me around as if I’m featherlight, which I’m definitely not.

“You are too weak to clean yourself. I will clean you.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His hands settle on those stacked hips of his. He has those hard rolls that only sports guys and models have. Hades belt?Ha.Something like that. And I should not be noticing—

“Your hands have to remain dry.” Apparently, he can tell I’m about to argue because he continues, “You are safe but you are filthy and these rags need to go into the trash.”

“These arenotrags,” I grumble.

But again, he ignores me, and I only release a squeak this time as he slices through the band at the sides of my breasts, leaving me to grow tense in preparation of the tip of the blade scoring my flesh—

Except…

It doesn’t.

The bra puddles around my hips in various strips of stained, cheap cotton that are undeniably speckled with vomit.

Lifting my arms, I automatically cover my breasts from his sight, nonplussed when he allows me to.

Next comes my panties, which he slashes at the hip. Again, the knife doesn’t touch me, but the most bewildering flutter of vanity drifts through me—I’m not thin.

With my panties gone, my hips arethere.

On display.

What a time to be body conscious.

Not that I’m allowed that feminine triviality for long—he gives me mouthwash and, after returning the knife to the shelf that’s too high for me to reach, watches me expectantly until I’ve completed that task.

Once I have, he snatches hold of me, then he picks me up like I don’t weigh two hundred pounds on a good day and carries me behind a glass shower screen.

That’s when I realize there’s a kind of shelf or seat, I guess, on the wall which he sets me on.

My cheeks immediately flush as its purpose hits home.

The water sprays on as I’m trying to think of why a man who captures women and holds them hostage would need a shower seat at this height that makes it easy for him to go down on them…

Cheeks red, I sign, “I can clean myself.”

But he’s back to silence.

I jerk when he grabs my wrist and turns my hand over. His grip on me is firm, unwavering, but not painful. If anyone knows the difference, it’s me.

He moves them away from the spray and shoots me a knowing glance that has me gritting my teeth. Then, I growl when he collects the soap.

He doesn’t use a washcloth, just pours the liquid soap straight onto his palm and starts to smooth it over my shoulders and my arms. He coats my breasts in it but doesn’t fondle them or molest me in any way.

With every stroke of his hands, I can’t deny it’s more clinical than I expected.

Like a caretaker washing a patient.

The notion makes me uncomfortable and is only amplified when he trails his fingers through the lather he makes, scrubbing at my sweat-stained, vomit-speckled chest and arms.

There’s no denying I needed help bathing, but this is just too much.

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