Page 69 of Wicked Vile King
And so the weekend passes. Trixie brings me food, the nurse brings me my meds, and the guards leave me alone, as I try to figure out how I can be the girl my parents raised, yet the person I'm becoming too.
On Sunday, I get out of bed, determined to shower. I turn on the water and sit at the bottom of the shower on the tile floor. The water pelts my skin, hot and steaming, hitting so hard it hurts, but I don't move.
I guess part of me thinks maybe if I'm clean enough, I can spot what's wrong with me and fix it, that I won't be two people in one body anymore.
I am the strong only child of a southern power couple and the girl who likes to be collared and commanded to fall to her knees.
It makes my head hurt again.
I don't know how long I'm in there, not exactly, though my fingertips are pruned by the time I stand and dry off with a towel. I head back into the bedroom to scrounge for clothes, when I spot someone on my bed. I shriek and nearly drop my towel.
On my messy bed, half atop the comforter and half atop the sheets, sits a very tall, very annoyed-looking Dr. Cross.
My gaze flits to Trixie's empty, unmade bed.
"Your roommate has been excused," he says with a tight-lipped smile. "Now, pleasesit, Ms. Cadelle."
I grip my towel even tighter, painfully aware of how naked I am beneath the thin fabric.
"Willow," he says, his green eyes shooting daggers at me. His gaze lowers to my throat and the collar still around my neck and I'm sure he's going to ask about it, before he surprises me and adds, "You missed our therapy session."
"I'm sick," I say.
He gives me a look that saystry better.
"The nurse said I was sick."
It sounds even more pathetic when I say it aloud.
"Willow. Take. A. Seat."
Oh shit.
I sit on Trixie's bed, which may frustrate him even more. Honestly, I can't tell as his gaze goes to my throat again, where the collar dries and drips water onto my bare chest. I grip the towel even tighter beneath my arms. His anger and judgment scald like a hot iron against my skin.
"You're wearing the collar again?" His jaw tics before he curses, his hands balling into fists. "Goddammit, Saint, I'm going to kill that little . . ."
"Wait," I tell him, raising a hand as much as I can while still holding the towel. "It's okay. I want to wear it."
"You want to wear it?"
He looks shocked, but it quickly transforms into disgust. The shame I've been fighting all weekend pricks at my eyes, but I don't back down.
"I want to wear it," I admit as he stands and then stoops to my level, kneeling in front of me to make me look at him.
"Are you sure, Willow?" he asks softly, examining it, his index finger tracing the bottom of the leather across my throat. "I'll cut it off right now. I'll have Laurier sent to the hole. Just say the word."
"No." I shake my head quickly.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"I want to keep it," I tell him. "I want to keep it for now."
"If you're sure," he mutters with another sour frown. "If you get some sort of peace by wearing it, if it helps you feel . . . composed."
"I'm sure," I say, unable to voice the rest of the words.
The words that say it's not peace that the collar gives me, it's pride, a screwed-up, savage pride that knows it makeshimhappy when he sees it.
