Page 92 of The Freedom in Captivity

Fuck, all I remember is standing beneath Rozelyn’s window, calculating the climb. The only reason I managed it was because it wasn’t a first-time thing. When I moved in eleven-years-ago, I’d often climb the mansion and would sit on the roof, until Lorenzo commanded I stop.

The alcohol was meant to clear my mind, but all it did was bring me to her. Despite my presence directly disobeying Nico’s orders, I don’t regret coming. Even if sleep evades me most of the night, leaving me upright beside a sleeping Rozelyn. Her long hair drapes the pillow and covers her shoulders, and she looks so at peace, it pains me.

Fucking Christ.I rub a hand down my face. The little bit of sleep I got cleared the alcohol from my head, resulting in a slight throb. But the more I remain beside her, the quicker the headache disperses.

When sunlight begins to peep between the curtains, my time is up. I should leave before I’m discovered. Climb down the side of the house and return to my room before food is delivered to her.

Instead, I stand from the bed, check my phone for any messages demanding immediate attention, and when finding none, head for the attached bathroom. Since Rozelyn was put up in one of the guest rooms, the bathroom is the size of my entire room.

I pass the glass-walled shower and head for the oversized bathtub in the far corner. Switching the taps on, I test the water until finding the ideal temperature between hot without being scalding, and wait for it to fill.

When the tub’s full, I twist the knob, cutting off the water, and then return to the bedroom, finding Rozelyn in the same position I left her in. I stop by the end of the bed to study her. How will I watch her walk away again?

Life’s brought us here, which means the cards we each hold now is our only play.

What happened today—last night—will be the final time. That’s the vow I make to myself. Itmustbe because it’s impossible for me to stay away from Rozelyn, but defying my bosses fills my throat with bile.

A streak of sunlight falls between the wall and the curtain, creating a glowing band over her skin.Mon soleilin her literal form.

Watching her sleep will become my favourite pastime, so before it has a chance to fully resonate in my head, I stride toward the bed and pull the comforter off her. She makes a noise in her sleep when the room’s temperature brushes her otherwise tepid skin. With one arm beneath her legs and the other under her shoulders, I lift her from the bed. Her head lolls, and she remains asleep.

Back in the bathroom, I carefully lower us both into the tub, turning her in my arms as we go down, my back to the tub, and her between my legs.

She wakens at the water’s heat, blinking sleepily up at me. Her lips curl into a genuine, soothing smile, which I look away from. It’s times like this that remind me so much of the past, and that’s not what I need. One bath, and then it’s goodbye.

“What are you doing?” she mumbles, her voice leaden with sleep.

Without responding, I reach for the wrapped soap bar on the side table, equipped with brand-new items for any visiting guest. After unwrapping it, I dip the bar into the water, wetting it and creating suds before stroking it over where her neck and shoulder connect.

“You’re cleaning me,” she states. “I don’t think you’ve ever cared for me like this.”

Because every other time was in a dank basement smelling of blood and torture.

“First time for everything.” I don’t meet her inquisitive gaze. I can’t. Her emotions are too strong for me to be able to walk away from.

“Thank you.” She sighs and her eyes flutter shut again, her body limp. She’s the ideal little victim, so trusting in her captor’s arms.

Except Rozelyn is everything but a victim.

The soap bar glides over her shoulders, her neck, her breasts. I avoid her nipples, and then dip the bar beneath the water. It makes the soap useless, but it doesn’t stop me from washing her regardless. Passing over her thighs, the healed stab mark from Rosen, and to the space between her legs.

She opens them wider for me and sighs when I wash her. “This feels really nice, Flynn. Like we’re in our own little world. One moon, one sun, together.”

I wish we were.

Instead, we’re two souls bound by pain and acceptance, constantly separated by circumstance.

“I want to wash you too.”

“No.”

It’s not meant to come out as cold as it does, but when her lips curve into a frown, I’m tortured with the fragile line of right and wrong. Despising me means her walking away will be easier on us both. Neither of us will live our lives waiting for a third chance that isn’t coming.

But granting her request, for both my desires and hers, has every nerve wanting to suck the word back in.

Rozelyn tips her head up to see me. She rolls, knocking my hands away until she’s kneeling between my bent legs. Slowly, she lifts a thigh over each of mine, placing her pussy right over my cock, and then grabs the soap bar in my hand.

When I should be fighting to maintain my ownership of the soap, I release it to her. With a pleased grin that makes everything worth it, Rozelyn washes my neck, my shoulders, my chest, pausing over my tattoo. She wipes it intently for a second, shakes her head of whatever thoughts she had, and then dips the bar down my abs, which are more tender than usual after the rigorous workout during the past two days.

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