Page 87 of Wallflower

“Much appreciated, Reid.”

Together we wait awkwardly outside the door to the blossom room. I’m aware I look like a smitten fucking fool, and maybe that works to my advantage. No one will be suspicious of the lust-struck imbecile with food and bags of shit for his imprisoned lady.

Eager to escape this awkward waiting around, I ask, “May I go in?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

I nod to Reid before turning the knob and stepping into the room. All is still, silent. No evidence of anymore outbursts, except the gouge in the wooden door from the vase she threw against it.

The torment lingering from the hours since I last left this place starts to dissipate. Seemingly just being in Rose’s space is enough to temper my emotions. Though, until I lay eyes on my flower, nothing in me will truly be docile.

While I wait, I make the bed. Only to set the scene I wish her to enter upon. I’m no one’s maid.

Meticulously, I move about the room. Laying the dress I’ve envisioned her in far too many times since our initial meeting out on the chair next to the dresser. It’s flowy, a dark forest green, with a low back to showcase her strength.

Cleaning off the bedside table, I place the fruit platter upon it. Next to it, I set the Prosecco, fresh peach juice, and glasses.

There’s no windows in this room, and it paints an annoyance across my face. I wish to witness the way the sun beams across her skin, setting her autumn flecked eyes ablaze.

Removing my shirt once again, I hang it over the camera to obscure its view. Dimming the lights, I move to the bed. Perching myself upon the edge to await her imminent arrival.

I wait.

And wait.

Checking my watch, then waiting some more.

Irritation and concern war within me as the seconds ascend to minutes.

Where the fuck is she?

Maximus has to know delaying his clients won’t work in his favour. I can only assume something happened.

I told her to behave. Can she not follow the simplest of instructions?

Maybe she’s begging them not to send her back to her room. Pleading for another John because this one likes the sight of her blood on his skin.

I scare her. I know I do.

But she scares me too.

The way I want to chain her up isn’t to hear her scream in agony. I want to see if she likes it.

The masochist to my sadist.

I don’t want to bring her pain she won’t enjoy, and I spent far too long analyzing that on my drive to the port last night.

Sweeping my sight across the room, I conclude I’m a fucking fool. Doing all this for a woman who could be getting stuffed with cock the second I leave. She can’t possibly feel anything for me, all she wants is an escape. She’ll manipulate me, be whatever I want, to get out of here. The desperation I’ve seen in her eyes makes that fact ring true. I’m a means to an end for her, just as she is me.

But if it gets me what I want, what does it matter?

Because I want her.

In my home. In my bed. Seated on my cock, with my claiming marks upon her skin.

Standing, I move to the side table. Picking the bag up off the floor, I start to put my purchases inside.

Would all this shit sway her? Initially, I wanted her fed so she would be strong enough to weather whatever storm I drag her through.