Page 66 of Silken Chains
Suddenly, I remember hearing David’s—no, Dave’s—whatever his damn name is, voice on the phone before I got kidnapped in my own home.
Has he been watching me this whole time?
Disgust washes over me like a second skin. It’s all just too much. Pushing that creepy thought to the back of my mind, I force out a deep, steadying breath. My gaze finally drifts upwards, taking in the luxury of the bathroom once more.
Holy cow.
It’s fancy in here, way fancier than anywhere I should be. White marble everywhere, looking expensive and cold. There’s a huge tub under a window; most likely costs more than I earn in a month.
There’s a sink that’s too pretty to spit toothpaste into and a bunch of soaps and stuff that probably smell like money.
Two plush, white bathrobes hang on a hook by the door, a big glass thing with more showerheads than I’ve got fingers. Looks like it could blast the dirt off a dinosaur.
Jesus. At least I’m alone for the first time in what feels like forever.
I press my ear against the door, straining for any sound of the maids.
Silence greets me. But I know that they are right outside.
Waiting.
Plotting their next move in the “Make Laura Presentable” production ordered by Ksenia. The thought makes me want to lock the door and hide in the tub.
A sudden knock at the door yanks me from my brief respite. The voice that follows is unmistakably Russian, tinged with a coldness that brooks no argument.
“Please hurry. Your presence is expected at dinner in two hours. We need to start getting you ready,” the voice instructs, its authority clear even through the closed door.
I straighten up, steeling myself.
For fuck’s sake.
“Alright, just give me a moment,” I call back, though I sound a lot less confident than I’d like.
I glance at myself in the mirror, trying to muster some semblance of the person I need to be to face whatever’s next. My reflection stares back, a mix of determination and nerves.
“Two hours,” I remind myself.
I quickly strip off the bathrobe and step into the shower, cranking up the hot water as high as I can tolerate it.
As I lather soap onto my body, I catch a whiff of soap from the nearby tray. My hand automatically reaches for it, squeezing out a tiny bit and bringing it to my nose.
Umm…
It smells like men’s soap. His scent. A rugged blend of wood and spice.
A choked gasp escapes me as I remember his cock, hard and unyielding between my lips, filling me with equal parts shame and arousal.
How can my body betray me like this? Crave the touch of a man who holds me captive, who has made clear his intentions to possess me in every way imaginable?
Laur, get a grip on yourself.
This is not a love story; it is a deal struck with the devil himself.
The thought of sharing this bathroom with Victor makes bile rise in my throat. I can almost feel his presence looming over me, even though I am alone.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter to myself before turning on the shower again to drown out my dirty thoughts.
I grab a bottle of shampoo and work it into my hair with more force than necessary. The suds slide down my body and swirl around my feet, carrying away some of the shame that weighs on me.
