Page 64 of Cold Bastard
I just let it happen.
I didn’t fight him. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t tell him to stop as his fingers worked the lotion into my inner thighs, his touch careful and deliberate. Methodical. He took his time, making sure every inch of skin was covered, his palms warm and firm against my flesh. He didn’t touch my pussy. Didn’t tease me. Didn’t let his fingers drift higher or linger too long in any one place. He just made sure my skin was soft and smooth, hydrated and cared for.
By the time he finished, I felt as if I were floating somewhere outside my own body. My body was completely relaxed, my muscles loose and pliable, my mind hazy and unfocused. The tension I had been carrying in my shoulders, my jaw, my chest, it was all gone. He set the lotion aside on the nightstand and pulled a thick, soft blanket over me, tucking it gently around my shoulders.
“Sleep,” he ordered gently, his voice low and soothing in the dim light.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him I wasn’t tired, that I wouldn’t sleep, that I wouldn’t let my guard down around him no matter how good his hands felt or how safe this moment seemed. But my eyes were already closing, heavy and impossibleto keep open. And the last thing I felt before I drifted off into the darkness was his hand resting gently on my hip, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against my skin.
Possessive. Protective.
Claiming me even in sleep.
I woke up hours later, disoriented and confused, as my mind struggled to piece together where I was and what had happened. The room was dark except for the faint glow of his computer monitors in the corner, their blue light casting strange shadows across the walls and ceiling. I was still in his bed, the blanket tucked around me carefully, almost tenderly, my body warm and relaxed in a way that felt foreign after everything I had been through. And he was sitting in the chair in front of his computer, his back to me, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light.
The soft clicking of the keyboard had stopped.
He must have heard me shift on the bed, the rustle of sheets breaking the silence, because I slowly watched him get up from his seat and walk over to me. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if he didn’t want to startle me. Each footstep seemed to echo in the quiet room as he sat on the edge of the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip slightly beneath him.
I could feel the heat radiating from his body even though he wasn’t touching me yet. For a long moment, he said nothing. He just looked at me, his eyes searching my face in the darkness as if trying to read something there, some answer to a question he hadn’t asked. The intensity of his gaze made my heart pound in my chest. Then his hand came up slowly, hesitantly, as his fingers brushed across my cheekbone with a gentleness that made my breath catch in my throat. His thumb traced the lineof my jaw with careful precision, his touch reverent, almost worshipful, as though I were something precious and fragile.
It was nothing like the violence I expected.
Nothing like the cruelty I braced myself for.
Nothing like the person I thought he was.
“Are you hungry?” His voice was soft and careful.
I tried to speak. Tried to form words. Tried to make my voice work the way it was supposed to. But my throat was too tight, constricted by fear and confusion. My mind was too fractured and scattered to string together a coherent sentence. The thoughts were there, swirling and desperate, but they couldn’t find their way out. So I simply nodded, a small, jerky movement that felt like surrender, as my eyes never left his. I studied his face, searching for some hint of his intentions, some clue about what would happen next.
He stood without another word and left the room. The silence he left behind was deafening. I listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway; each one echoed in the stillness, as my heart hammered against my ribs like it were trying to escape my chest. This was it. This was when I should have run. When I should have found a way out. When I should have thrown off these blankets, tested my legs, and made a break for the door or a window or anywhere that wasn’t here.
But I didn’t move.
My body refused to obey. Whether from weakness, fear, or something else entirely, I remained frozen in place, barely breathing.
He returned minutes later with a tray—soup in a bowl, steam rising from its surface, bread that looked freshly baked, and a glass of water with condensation beading on the outside. He set it on the nightstand with careful precision and sat beside me again, this time closer. Close enough that I could feel his warmthradiating from him. He dipped the spoon into the broth. The liquid caught the dim light as he brought it slowly to my lips.
“Open,” he said quietly.
I did. The soup was warm, salty, exactly what my body needed after days of barely eating. The broth coated my throat, soothing the rawness there. He fed me slowly, patiently, one spoonful at a time, waiting until I swallowed before offering the next. He wiped my chin with a napkin when some dribbled down, his touch light and almost apologetic. His movements were careful, attentive, deliberate in a way that suggested he had done this before, cared for someone like this before me.
There was no rush, no impatience in his eyes. Just... care.
Genuine, unwavering care that I couldn’t reconcile with everything else he had done.
It was the tenderness that broke something inside me. Something I had been holding onto, some last shred of clarity about who he was and what this was. I should have been terrified. Should have been screaming, fighting, trying to escape. But I wasn’t. I just... let him feed me, let him take care of me, as my eyes burned with tears I couldn’t explain, couldn’t understand, couldn’t stop. My mind was spun with a confusion so profound I didn’t know how to survive it, didn’t know how to make sense of the contradiction sitting in front of me.
Because of his gentle, careful attention, the soft concern in his eyes was somehow more dangerous than any violence could ever be. It was disarming in a way that terrified me more than anything else, and I didn’t know what to think anymore.
Didn’t know who he was.
Didn’t know who I was becoming.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alex
