Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Fight or flight?
In this basement prison with one exit and a man who could probably bench press my entire body weight?
Flight's not really an option, is it?
Master steps into the dim light thrown by that single nightlight, and I catalog the visual with the detached precision of someone whose brain has officially divorced from her body's panic response. Ski mask still in place, because God forbid I see his actual face and develop inconvenient human connections. Shirtless now, revealing a torso splattered with tattoos cataloguing a range of Catholic iconography. It looks like it was carved from marble by someone with an advanced degree in Intimidating Muscle Definition and Subtext-Loaded Body Art. His black leather pants still tight enough to reveal what I can only now presume to be a permanent bulge.
The whole ensemble screams Professional Dominant Who Takes His Job Very Seriously, even at whatever time of the night this is…
"What are you doing here?" The words tumble out before my brain catches up to remind me that I'm not supposed to speak without permission.
Shit.
He sighs—a sound that manages to convey disappointment, exasperation, and the kind of tired patience usually reserved for dealing with particularly slow children.
His gaze travels over my naked body with clinical assessment, and I feel like a failed science experiment under a microscope.
"You didn't bathe." His voice cuts through the darkness like a blade. "You didn't dress."
The accusation hangs in the air between us, and suddenly I'm eight years old again, being scolded for forgetting to brush my teeth.
Except this is infinitely more fucked up.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I snap, exhaustion making my filter malfunction spectacularly. "I was too busy recovering from your psychological warfare masterclass to remember basic hygiene protocols. Maybe next time provide a fucking itinerary so I know which human functions are mandatory versus optional in your little torture chamber."
The words pour out like acid, each syllable dripping with the kind of sarcasm that used to get me detention in high school. "Should I have also done a few jumping jacks before bed? Maybe some yoga poses? Written a thank-you note for the stale bread and surveillance?"
I'm building up steam now, exhaustion and fear combining into a cocktail of pure snark. "Forgive me for not immediately understanding that 'eat, bathe, dress, sleep' was actually a divine commandment rather than—"
I stop mid-sentence, blinking hard.
What the hell am I doing?
This man could break me in half without spilling his coffee. This man who spent eleven hours systematically dismantling my dignity with the precision of a Swiss watch. And I'm standing here naked, eviscerating him over my customer service expectations?
Survival instincts finally kick in, but it's too late to take back the verbal assault.
Master steps closer, and I instinctively try to back away, but there's nowhere to go. My spine hits the concrete wall, and the cold seeps through my skin like judgment.
He reaches for my hand, and I jerk away automatically. But his grip is iron wrapped in velvet—too firm, too controlled, the kind of hold that says I could hurt you, but I'm choosing restraint.
"Come," he says simply, and the single word carries more authority than most people manage in entire speeches.
He leads me toward the bathtub, and I follow because what's the alternative? Making this situation worse than it already is?
Master turns on the water, and steam begins rising from the faucet like incense in a very fucked-up church. The sound echoes off the walls, amplifying in the small space until it feels like being inside a waterfall.
He points to the tub with the kind of gesture that means get in without requiring translation.
I stare at the slowly filling basin, confused. There's barely enough water to cover my ankles—not exactly what most people would call a bath. More like a very shallow, very public foot-washing ceremony.
But arguing seems like a poor life choice at this point.
I step into the tub, and the warm water feels like a small mercy against my feet. The rest of my body, however, is now fully exposed to the cool air, even when I sit, and within seconds I'm shaking uncontrollably.
The water level isn't rising fast enough to provide any real warmth, and I'm starting to wonder if hypothermia is part of the evening's educational agenda when something unexpected happens.
Master's hand touches my arm—gentle, careful, nothing like the controlled force from moments before.
"Relax," he says, and his voice has shifted completely. Gone is the bark of command, replaced by something softer, almost... kind? "Breathe."
I watch in shock as he removes his gloves, revealing hands that are both covered in tattoos and surprisingly elegant for someone whose job description apparently includes Professional Intimidation Specialist.
He picks up a cup from beside the tub and begins pouring warm water over my shoulders, and the sensation is so unexpected that I nearly sob with relief.