Page 51 of Wallflower

Reaching over me, he grabs the shampoo, squeezing some onto his palm. His strong fingers start to massage it into my scalp. Working from top to bottom, he spreads the suds.

“Your sister’s as safe as she can be,” he whispers so close his lips brush my ear.

“How—“

“Turn.”

I comply, facing him again.

“Tilt your head back.”

Methodically, he rinses the lather from my hair.

Karson swaps the shampoo bottle for conditioner. “Turn around.” Squirting a healthy amount directly onto my head, he works in silence, spreading the creamy softness from root to tip.

My hair is heavy and saturated when he starts to soap up the cloth. Working it in gentle circles across my abused skin. How he knows to let the conditioner sit on the hair, I don’t know, but I’m not about to complain. Between the salt water and blood, I’m lucky my hair isn’t breaking apart.

I keep waiting for him to say something else, to provide me with some small morsel of information related to Chelsea. He doesn’t. He stays silent, focusing on his task to clean me up like his master instructed.

“How do you know she’s safe?” I say as quietly as I can while still making sure he can hear me over the water.

“I just know,” he growls low, looking up at me as he scrubs between my toes.

Karson averts his gaze as he returns to his task, taking careful consideration to look anywhere but my chest or between mythighs. He makes it apparent to anyone watching that he isn’t aroused by me in the slightest.

The longer I observe him, I realize he doesn’t unnecessarily touch me. He doesn’t brush his dick up against me, doesn’t cop a feel, not so much as a slip up. Fuck, he’s not even hard. Not that I’m complaining. But it’s odd, given where I am and what I expected.

Passing me the now stained cloth, Karson lets me wash my own intimate areas. Not even a courtesy Sam extended to me. Someone who claims to care about me.

It hits me like a freight train then.

“You care about her, don’t you?” I rush out on a quiet breath.

Every muscle in Karson’s body goes rigid, eyes turning icy instead of balmy. “No. I don’t.”

His response and body language are two sides of the same warring coin. Admitting he cares for something in this place is the same as spraying a neon orange target on its back.

“Mmm,” I mumble, imitating him from before.

“Turn,” he snaps loudly, rising to his feet.

The rest of the process is silent. I stew in his words. Chelsea is safe, and he’s doing what he can to keep it that way. It’s why he smells of her perfume, even after a few days. Maybe she’s been offered small prizes for compliance.

Without a doubt, my sister would request that perfume, it’s been her signature scent since she was fifteen. It would remind her of home, of me, and the birthday when I gifted it to her. The one where I slammed her face into the cake, thoroughly embarrassing her in front of all her friends. In retaliation, she pushed me into the pool fully dressed. Back when we were as happy as we could be, given the circumstances.

The memory burns and throbs, like a bee’s stinger stuck beneath my skin, pumping its venom into me by attached pulsing entrails.

How did we end up here?

Is it my fault?

Mr. Smythe:

Is my shipment ready?

Mr. Morgan:

Just ironing out the final details.