He Hated Me First

8. Vulnerability and Voyeurism

The door to my quarters clicked shut behind me with a finality that echoed through my bones. I leaned against the solid wood, letting out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of the entire evening with it.

He killed for you.

The thought circled endlessly, a vulture picking at the carcass of my understanding. Jackson Reid massive, brutal Jackson, lay dead in the fighting circle because Larry wouldn't let anyone threaten what was his. Even if what was his happened to be the one person he'd dedicated eight years to destroying.

"Stop thinking about it," I whispered to the empty room. "It doesn't change anything."

But it changed everything.

I pushed away from the door and surveyed the space that was supposedly mine. Adjacent to Larry's bedroom, connected by a door he'd made abundantly clear stayed locked from his side. The room was beautiful, soft cream walls, plush carpeting that my feet sank into, a bed large enough to drown in. The attached bathroom gleamed with promise.

A gilded cage dressed up as sanctuary.

Every muscle in my body ached with a tension that had nothing to do with physical exertion. Sitting through that challenge, feeling every emotion Larry experienced through the mate bond, watching him tear out another wolf's throat, it had left me wrung out, hollowed, like I'd been the one fighting.

What I needed was hot water and oblivion.

The bathroom was a revelation even the second time seeing it. I'd used Larry's bathroom after the claiming ceremony, but this one was mine. Or as mine as anything could be when you were a beautiful prisoner. I turned on the shower, and steam immediately began fogging the mirrors, erasing my reflection.

Good. I wasn't sure I wanted to see what looked back.

I stripped off the elegant black dress, the one Larry had chosen, the one that made me look like I belonged at his side and stepped under the spray. The heat hit my skin like a benediction, and I tilted my face up to meet it.

And then, against all logic, I grinned.

I couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity crashed over me like the water, less than a week ago, I'd been sleeping on a cot in a closet-sized room, eating scraps when they remembered to feed me, being whipped for sport. Now I stood in a bathroom worth more than most wolves earned in a lifetime, mated to the Alpha who'd orchestrated my torture, and somehow...

Still alive.

Still fighting.

Still here.

"What the actual hell is my life?" I asked the steam.

Through the mate bond, I felt a flicker of something from Larry's direction. Curiosity? Confusion? Was he wondering where I was, what I was thinking?

Let him wonder.

I reached for the shampoo, jasmine and vanilla, expensive scents I'd only ever smelled on ranked wolves and worked it through my hair slowly. My fingers caught on tangles, patient despite the sting, and I realized this was the first time in years I'd had the luxury of actually caring for myself.

The soap came next, and I was careful around the healing wounds on my back. They'd been treated by the pack healer after the claiming, but they were still tender. Each gentle touch was a reminder of what I'd survived, what I was still surviving, what I refused to let break me.

When I finally stepped out, my skin flushed pink from the heat, my muscles had loosened enough that I could almost pretend I wasn't living in constant survival mode.

I grabbed a towel, impossibly soft, the kind of luxury I'd forgotten existed and dried off slowly. My reflection caught my eye in the mirror. The girl looking back didn't match the one I'd seen days ago. Color in her cheeks. Light in her eyes. The mate bond was feeding me strength even as it chained me to my tormentor.

"Well," I told my reflection, "you're still breathing. That's something."

I walked into the bedroom, my damp hair leaving droplets on my shoulders, my skin still warm from the shower. The cool air felt delicious, and for the first time since the claiming, I was truly alone. No guards watching. No pack members sneering. No Larry circling like I was prey he couldn't decide whether to devour or destroy.

Just me and blessed silence.

The lotion on the dresser caught my eye, expensive, the kind I'd seen Zara and her circle use. I picked up the bottle, squeezed some into my palm, and the scent of cocoa butter and shea rose up like an offering.

I started with my legs, working the cream into my calves in slow, deliberate circles. My muscles released under my own hands, tension I hadn't realized I was carrying seeping away. Up to my thighs, taking my time, actually treating this body like it was worth caring for.

My arms next. Wrist to shoulder, spreading the lotion with careful attention. Every movement felt meditative, grounding. For the first time in years, I was treating myself like something precious instead of something that existed only to suffer.

Reaching my back was harder. I had to contort, stretching to apply lotion around the healing whip marks. My shoulders protested, but I persisted. If I was going to survive whatever fresh hell Larry had planned, I needed to be strong. I needed to heal.

My stomach, my sides, I felt the too-prominent ridges of ribs from years of near-starvation. The mate bond was already changing that. Larry had been forcing proper meals on me, even if his motivations were twisted. "Can't have my mate looking half-dead," he'd said. "Reflects poorly on me."

As if I existed to maintain his reputation.

I squeezed more lotion into my palms and moved higher, taking extra care with my collarbones, my neck, behind my ears. Small touches. Gentle movements. Learning the landscape of my own body like it was something new and worth knowing.

Because maybe it was.

The mate bond suddenly pulsed with something sharp and heated desire tangled with anger, want mixed with resentment. I froze, my hands still at my throat.