opposite side of the room, a television flicked on, the glow of the screen brightening as the lights in the room dimmed. I couldn’t see what he was watching, but there was the low din of a cheering crowd, some type of sport that meant little to me as I settled on the rug and stared at a dark wall.
Leaning back against the hard iron frame, I blinked quickly to stop the tears that stung my eyes. The bastard wanted to see me broken and upset, but I refused to give him that.
An hour must have passed before I tried to find a comfortable position to lie down, but there were very few options, the strap tightening painfully on my wrist if I tugged too far away.
Angry, I finally summoned the will to speak.
“Do I at least get a pillow or a blanket of some kind?”
He didn’t answer immediately, and I thought we were back to him refusing to speak, but then he said, “I can have a dog bed brought in. Would that make you happy?”
I didn’t bother with an answer.
I spent the entire night on that floor, the television eventually turning off as Callan shifted on the mattress above me. Unable to sleep soundly, I woke up every time he tossed and turned, and I was bleary eyed by morning when he finally left the bed to wander into the bathroom.
Giving up on getting any sleep beyond that, I sat up and listened to water running in a shower, my head falling back against the frame of the bed while I fought not to remember what his body had looked like without clothes.
It was a losing battle. Every ridge and valley of muscle was running through my thoughts, my fingertips brushing over the soft rug as if I could feel the heat of his skin beneath them.
My throat worked to swallow despite my parched mouth, and it didn’t help when steam rolled out of the bathroom carrying his scent.
The water shut off, and I peeked around the frame of the bed to watch him walk out completely naked, his powerful body moving with mouthwatering grace as he used a towel to dry his hair. The air caught in my lungs as I watched him move across the room toward his closet, that same air rushing out when he turned so that I could see his back.
Running my eyes up the hard muscle of his calves and thighs, I paused for a moment on the shape of his perfect ass, but then my eyes crawled higher to see the scars that climbed his back like a ladder rung of faint white lines starting at his hips and ending at his shoulders.
Who had hurt him, I wondered, my heart constricting in my chest with the fear that he’d earned those scars as a child every time I went to my father to complain about him.
Not that he’d done anything wrong. I would just grow bored every so often and enjoyed watching him get in trouble.
A new wave of shame blanketed me as I stared at those scars, but not for too long.
Callan turned as if he could sense I was watching, and I moved to stay out of sight, my pulse hammering as I stared at the wall again and blinked away more tears of a different kind.
“Enjoying the view?”
His deep voice rubbed me in all the right places, a war between desire, regret and fear being fought in my veins.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I lied, refusing to admit I’d been watching him.
He only laughed softly.
“You always were a liar.”
The bulbs in the closet flicked on to bathe the wall in front of me with soft light.
Hangers scraped against rods, and his heavy steps beat across the floors as Callan moved around the bed to stare down at me.
Dressed in a pair of jeans that hung loosely off his hips and a T-shirt that hugged every muscle on his large frame, he had a boyish charm with his dark, wet hair hanging down over his forehead, a bead of water slipping down his face to get caught in the stubble that shadowed his jaw.
Callan crouched beside me and reached forward, but I shuffled back. He stared at me for a few quiet seconds, a smirk curling his lips.
“Did you want to stay here all day? Or are you going to give me your wrist so I can remove the strap?”
My hand shook, but I reached toward him