Page 29 of Silenced

He might as well be washing my hair again.

Still, I feel awkward. The last time someone cleaned me like this, I was a child, and I’m not a kid and he’s definitely not one of my parents.

I know I should be struggling against his hold, but I’m trapped and, even though my heart is pounding, the fear that was prevalent every time I came into contact with my—with Harvey—in the past is notably absent.

That terror has shadowed every experience with him to the point that I almost choked on it whenever he came within a foot of me, but it’s not a part ofthisinteraction.

That doesn’t mean I’m not relieved when the man’s almost finished.

Until, that is, he reaches for the detachable shower head again and flashes it over my sex.

Which is when the most disconcerting pulse of,God, pleasure throbs through me.

Eyes wide, cheeks hot with mortification, I tilt my face to the side so he can’t see my features and read between lines I don’t want him to see at all.

Once he’s satisfied I’m clean, the shower cuts off, and he releases his tangled hold on me before carrying me back over to the vanity.

I can’t deny that it’s good to be clean, especially when I know I’ve vomited over myself, but with that seat in the shower, I could have handled that alone.

I don’t care how weak I feel; I would have goddamn managed.

Huffing when he peels a bathrobe from one of the hooks on the wall, I ignore the fact that it smells of him as he wraps me in it.

“I’m not a doll,” I sign at him.

No response.

Frustration has me gritting my teeth so fiercely that I’m going to need to visit a dentist soon.

He presses down on the toweling, patting me dry with the bathrobe. Just as I tuck myself within its voluminous folds, huddling into it, grateful for the covering, he’s dragging it off me and tossing the admittedly drenched fabric on the floor.

“What are you doing?” I sign at him, shrieking the words too.

Either way, he ignores me, picks up another towel, and starts to dry my hair.

Then, he withdraws a hairdryer and hits the ‘on’ button.

As the motor whines to life, I hover there, butt naked, in front of a guy who would be out of Gigi Hadid’s league, and he’s drying my fucking hair.

It’s then that I have to concede I wouldn’t have had the energy to do any of this.

Just standing here is tough.

The drugs and the pain in my head are making me sway on my feet, and when he draws me closer, I lean against him even though it galls me.

When he picks me back up, I’m actually past caring that I’m fat and naked and every un-supermodel inch of me is on display.

He hefts me onto the vanity and snags my leg in his hand.

“Can’t you stop prodding me?” I snap, grabbing his shoulder when he ignores me so that I can sign in his face.

In comparison to the fierceness of my grip, his hold is tender as he lifts my foot.

The strangest notion drifts into my head—is he going to suck my freakin’ toe?

Then, I’m almost relieved to spy the bandage on my ankle.

He peels that off and douses it with rubbing alcohol and antibiotic cream he finds in a drawer from the vanity along with a bandage he uses to cover the wounds.

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