Page 97 of Chain Me
“You’re safe.”
I turned toward the sound of his voice.
He hadn’t moved from his position on the side of my bed, even though I sensed I’d slept for hours at least. “Eleanor?” He sounded worried.
Should he have been? I wasn’t sure. I needed to move. I needed to think.
“I…I think I just need to use the restroom…”
The corner of his jaw twitched, betraying his thoughts in a way I’d never been able to interpret before: suspicion. He didn’t trust me.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve woken up seemingly lucid,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. His eyes narrowed over my hands as they grasped at the sheets, yet he made no attempt to free me. “How do you feel?”
I took my time answering. He was cautious for a reason, and I sensed a need to make my reply as coherent as possible.
“Sore,” I admitted finally. “And my arm hurts. And my throat.”
Some of the tension constricting his brow eased. “Your wounds need to be healed, but you’ve been refusing to drink my blood. Dmitri’s had to rebandage you at least four times. It’s a miracle you haven’t bled out. We couldn’t even inject you because you fought like hell every time, even while sedated.” His mouth softened further.
Was my Devil impressed?
But his words only emphasized what Dmitri himself had hinted at.This is the fifth iteration of this damn speech I’ve delivered…
“I still feel strange,” I added hoarsely. “Like my thoughts are scattered and… But I don’t want to hurt myself.”
His gaze flickered to my right arm, tracing the length of bandage wrapped from wrist to shoulder, but the pathetic note in my voice must have been enough to overcome his concern. For now.
He approached the limb closer to him. With some sleight of hand I couldn’t make out, he undid the manacle—a strip of thick, black silk—and placed it on the nearby end table. I flexed my fingers carefully, hissing as blood returned to them. But I kept the rest of my body still, avoiding any sudden movements. Watching me like a hawk, Dublin circled around to my opposite side and did the same.
Freedom hurt. I groaned as I stretched my limbs and attempted to sit upright. Dublin assisted me, utilizing his touch where I lacked the strength. Despite how my muscles were throbbing, it felt good to move. Even while being observed with an intensity most men might reserve for a lab rat.
Unnerved by his concern, I decided that my best option was to utilize it. “Help me up.”
I extended my uninjured arm, allowing him to pull me to my feet. From this angle, the rest of the unfamiliar bedroom unfolded before me. With every detail, the unease within my skin grew into an itching dread. It was large, as cavernous as Dublin’s cathedral. Dark walls lacked a window, instead sporting exquisite macabre paintings depicting images of war and violence.
Marble floors were adorned with Persian rugs woven with intricate designs composed of gold and ebony threads. A fireplace—black stone carved into the open maw of a serpent—yawned against the far wall and the fire roaring within basted my skin with what little heat I felt.
“Come here.” Dublin approached, his hands raised as if to ensure he didn’t startle me.
Once satisfied by my reaction, he lifted me into his arms, and within seconds, we were in an adjacent bathroom, the interior of which was no less extravagant than the bedroom. And just as imposing.
A large sunken tub had been cut within the center of the marble floor. Dublin set me down near the edge of it. His touch lingered along my arm as if to gauge whether or not I’d suddenly try attacking myself. Then he withdrew to the corners of the room, fetching various supplies.
Overall, the layout resembled how I figured an ancient Roman bath might. Golden columns accented the space at various intervals, and a large mirror consumed an entire wall alone. Once I saw my reflection on its surface, I failed to muster up the energy to even gasp. My skin lacked definition, my cheeks sunken and hollow.
I looked more dead than alive.
No wonder Dublin seemed unwilling to leave me unattended for very long. He returned to my side and guided me into the basin of the tub. There, he stripped my thin nightgown and ran the water.
The nuances of his expression eluded me once more, so I observed my skin instead. A thick length of bandages covered my right arm from wrist to shoulder. Crimson splotches betrayed signs of fresh bleeding, but I wasn’t brave enough to check the wounds underneath. My throat was another matter. I ran my finger over it, sensing uneven, inflamed skin that matched the violent array of scratches my reflection revealed.
“You need blood,” Dublin warned as the water lapped up my sides. “You need to eat.”
He sounded hesitant and I couldn’t help but wonder why. Though maybe I already knew. I’d been so hysterical that he’d had no choice but to bind me just to keep me from hurting myself.
“How was I poisoned?” I asked as he settled behind me.
“Methodically. You were never given blood from the same person twice,” he said. “From the outset, I knew to source anything I gave you carefully. Every drop came from donors I considered to be the highest quality and least susceptible to corruption. For you to receive the dose you did, each one of them must have consumed trace levels of the poison long before I drew a drop from their veins.”
