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Oubliette
After a steaming shower, I towel dried my hair as much as possible. Plaiting it to the side and peering at myself in the foggy mirror, the bruises are nearly nonexistent. The scars are internal. To me, I see his fingers, I see his face, I see his wide eyes.
Those eyes are imprinted on the back of my lids every time I close them. I’ve tried to keep awake to block him out, but even in my waking mind, Nock’s glare shocks me.
Flicking the light off and leaving the fan running, I leave the room.
Deciding to check out the house, as Lucius is in the garage, I take a tour. It’s not massive, but it’s comfortable in its entirety. There are two bedrooms—one that looks like it’s never been touched—an office that’s empty, a laundry room and the kitchen. That’s it, other than the living room I’m standing in. There’s great light in here. Any artist would be in heaven. Or a cat. Cat’s love light. Heck, my brother’s big dog would love this space.
Me? I notice the sophistication of nothing. Empty is beautiful. My condo is similar. I know guys think girls are clutterbugs, but I love simplicity.
Seeing a mess on the window and egg shells on the floor, I have to say I’m surprised. For a man who seems regimented, stark, and particular in his surroundings, an egg on the window is out of place. Grabbing a cloth and spray from the kitchen, I clean it up.
While I do, I hear Lucius in the garage. There’s smacking, banging, thumping, and grunting—he seems pretty pissed. I think it’s best if I leave him a bit longer.
On the counter, there’s a few eggs in a container, half beaten in a bowl, bread, and a package of bacon. I might as well finish what he’d started. Cooking up the eggs and bacon, I get to work on the toast while it fries up.
At some point, I couldn’t handle hearing Lucius’ melodic pounding further, so I turned on the stereo. Cranking the volume, music I didn’t expect blasts from the speakers. Old-school rap makes the windows rattle.
“Shit!” Scrambling across the room to the receiver, I turn down the volume as fast as I can. Once it’s at a rate tolerable, I start back on the food.
Moving with the beat, I enjoy music that I haven’t heard in a while. The food smells amazing, causing my rapidly starving stomach to grumble.
Walking to the garage door, hoping that he’s exhausted and starved enough that I won’t be a target, I decide that there are other ways to distract him—just in case. Pulling the sweater off, wearing only the white Broken Bows tee he gave me, my nipples are noticeable through the material.
With a deep breath, I open the door and watch him, the way he shifts, moves, and throws all his energy into a punch. I’m amazed by the strong man killing a heavy bag.
Deciding it’s best to inject humor into the moment, I say, “If you have that much energy, I can give you other things to do rather than kill a poor defenseless bag.”
Looking me in the eyes, his fire dissipates. His dark skin has a sheen to it from the sweat, his soft soulful eyes are strong and direct. “Where’s the sweater I gave you?”
His body is drenched in sweat, the shirt stuck to the plains of his chest, perfectly showcasing his strong body.
“Inside.” I indicate with a quirk of my head. “How long do you feel like killing that?” Crossing my ankles and leaning on the doorframe, his smile-free face searches mine. His expression lights up the room. It’s easy to see that this garage—this workout room, has never had a woman in it. It’s built for one purpose. Not a car, not a bike, which is parked on the other side. Nope. This room is for clearing out the cobwebs in your head.
He wipes his face down with a towel. “How long have I been out here?”
“Long enough.” Smiling wide, I don’t dare tell him he’s been out here for over an hour. “But you still seem to have a ton of energy to expel.” Tapping the button for the garage, I giggle as it closes. “I’m hungry, and someone promised me a meal.”
Seeming sort of sorry for that, he smirks and steps up to me. “I didn’t mean to be gone that long.” It’s a nearly nonexistent smile, but I can see his beard twitch. “Let me feed you, woman.”
Reaching out, he tweaks my nipple. Squealing slightly, I pull in a lungful of air as he grips my boob tight. He’s so intense, it’s crazy.
I’ve gone from being the captive—I’ve said it before—to a captive on my own terms. I’m here because I want to be. This isn’t by someone else’s rules. This is different.
But is it different for him I wonder?