When I laid her in the bed, Reginald tsked. "For fuck's sake lad, look at her hands."

  I could see the rough, raw scrapes right at her thumb knuckle. Had she fucking broken her own thumbs?

  I laid her down gently and smoothed her hair out of her face. "Daphne, talk to me. Did you hurt yourself? Did you break your thumbs to get out?"

  She didn't answer me.

  Reginald knelt down next to me. "Love, are you all right?"

  Her dead gaze flicked to him and then away again, fixating at a button on my shirt.

  Reginald shook his head. "You've gone too far now, mate."

  "What was I supposed to do? Let her run back to London?"

  "Yeah, if she managed to outsmart us, make it out of this house, and get a ride back to London, she deserves her freedom then."

  I swallowed hard. "I can't let her go."

  He rounded on me. “Look what you have done to this poor girl. She hasn't done anything wrong. You said it to me yourself. She has done nothing. And now look at her."

  Guilt wasn't an emotion I was used to. Everything I did had a reason, had an expected outcome.

  "Would you get her something to eat? I'll clean her up."

  Reginald scowled at me. "I'm not sure I can trust you to do that. You tossed a terrified woman in the bloody boot?"

  She was muddy. Filthy. And she was hurt. I knew when I peeled away her socks that I was going to find an injury on her right foot. She'd been desperate to get away from me.

  Of course, she was. You kidnapped her. She thinks you're going to kill her. Start talking to her, or she will kill herself trying to escape you. And that'll be another death on your conscience.

  Fuck.

  "I'm not going to hurt her. Just get her some food, okay?"

  Reginald turned to leave, but I could feel his judgment as he walked out of the room. I had fucked this up.

  I knelt down near her feet. "Daphne, I need to take a look at your feet, okay?"

  She didn't acknowledge that I’d spoken. I wasn't sure what was worse, her fighting and kicking the whole way or this frozen zombie routine.

  I peeled off the sock. Her feet were raw. Red on the bottom. The right one had a nasty gash that needed cleaning. She didn't move, and I had to peel her leggings off her. I left her knickers where they were and resolutely looked away. She didn't say anything, didn't move at all. I hoisted her up and peeled the jumper off her as well as her Henley, but I left her in her bra.

  Right. "Daphne, I'm going to sit you in the tub so I can wash you off, yeah? But I'm going to leave your undergarments on, okay?"

  Again, she didn't acknowledge me.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I carried her into the loo and sat her on the edge of the counter while I started to run the bathwater. Her hair was grimy, completely filthy, and I didn't know what to do.

  You know what to do. She's going to get sick if you do not clean her up.

  I was grateful for one thing; her bra and knickers were black. Not see-through at all. Simple. Like a bathing suit. That's how I had to look at them.

  I put some Epsom salt in the water, as well as some bubbles. And when it was filled up halfway, I eased her into the tub.

  "Can I trust you to sit here and not try to drown yourself? I picked up some things for you earlier. They're in the car. Do you mind?"

  Her gaze darted to mine, but she said nothing. "I'll take that as a yes."

  I've never moved so quickly in my life. I took the stairs two at a time all the way down, back into the car to grab all the things, and then back upstairs. She was exactly where I’d left her. She’d made no attempt to move. She could have been out of the bedroom again if she wanted, but she hadn't moved an inch.

  You actually broke her this time.

  I laid out all the products Reginald had told me to get. Some conditioners, some shampoo, hydrating things for curly hair, bath gels, and stuff. Detangling brushes, those sorts of things. I'd spent all bloody last night watching a goddamn YouTube video because I knew she couldn't be trusted to do it on her own without either trying to poison herself or use it to escape in some way. Knowing her, she'd plan a way to make some beauty product into some kind of incendiary device.

  The sick, whacked-out part of me found that funny.

  I grabbed a washcloth and started with her feet, using the baby cleanser I’d bought for her skin to clean them.

  She didn't wince. She didn't move.

  "I'm sorry you hurt yourself. I didn't want you to get hurt."

  The truth was a funny thing as it wound its way around my heart.

  Her gaze flicked to me again, but she still said nothing as I silently cleaned her feet. The only indication that she was still with me was the way she winced and flinched away from my touch when I cleaned the gash.

  "I'm sorry. We need to clean it, or you'll get sick."

  She glowered at me mutinously, and I was glad to see some semblance of her former self back, even if it was just a peek. I moved through the basics of her bath quickly, even as I checked and inspected her. She had some bruises, a few cuts and abrasions, but she was mostly okay. I was all business as I washed her legs and then proceeded to start draining the water even as I added fresh water in. When she was all clean, save her hands, I used another gentle cloth to clean them. "How did you get out? You scraped up your hands pretty bad."

  Her palms were abraded and bruised and scratched. She winced when I cleaned those, but I was most worried about the abrasions on her wrist, her knuckles, and her thumb. “Does this hurt?”

  She didn’t answer. Just stared past me.

  I preferred her fighting. This hollowed out version of her sliced me too deep.

  Daphne

  Later that night, I lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. Drake had cleaned me up as best he could and Reginald had tried to feed me.

  They’d left my hair for tomorrow since I was so out of it.

  The darkness of the room weighed on me like a heavy, suffocating blanket. My mind raced, replaying the events of my life in an endless loop. Eventually, I managed to calm down enough to drift off into an uneasy sleep, but it was far from peaceful. Nightmares haunted me throughout the night, leaving me exhausted and emotionally drained come morning light.

  I was six again. I flashed back to my mother's cruel laughter as she slammed the door shut, trapping me in the closet. Tears of terror streamed down my face as the familiar feelings surged through my veins like electricity, refusing to be ignored and making it nearly impossible to relax.

  The memories of that night came flooding back. I could feel the cold fear in my chest, a tightness that refused to be released. Tears streamed down my face as I remembered how helpless I had felt when my mother had slammed the door shut, trapping me in the closet.

  I shivered, my body trembling with terror and anger. I curled up into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible so I could disappear and never have to face her again. But I knew it was impossible. There was no escape from her cruelty and hatred.

  Then I woke up. And still, all these years later, I couldn't help but wonder why she did those things to me. Was it really just because she didn't want me around? Or was there something else going on? Something deeper than the obvious?

  I was still at Reginald’s country home, moonlight filtering through the cracks in the blinds. And instead of the biting cold of the closet, I felt a warm hand holding mine.

  Drake.

  He was standing over me, a frown etching deep lines into his face. Even in the dim light, I could see his eyes, bright and watchful. It struck me then how protective he seemed. For a moment, I let myself bask in that feeling, something I'd never experienced in the past. His gaze dropped from my face to our joined hands, then back up to meet my eyes. I could see the questions in his gaze. He wanted answers, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to give them.

  I opened my mouth to speak, wanting to tell him about the nightmare and all of the emotions it had dredged up from the depths of my soul. But as soon as I began to form words, they died on my lips. Instead of explaining what had happened, all that remained was a thick silence between us.

  But it was okay. Even without speaking a word, I could feel his understanding. He squeezed my hand gently in response and nodded, offering me comfort and support even in this dark moment of vulnerability.

  For a few moments we stayed like that, silent but connected by an invisible bond that transcended even language. He stood there for a moment longer, seeming to understand that my mind was still preoccupied with the events of the day and the nightmare that had jolted me awake.

  "Why are you here?" I croaked, clearing my throat.

  "You were having a nightmare," he answered simply. He let go of my hand, and I felt a pang of disappointment.

  "Why aren't you asking what it was about?" I challenged, my guard back up. I was curious as to why he didn't probe further, why he didn't demand to know the reason behind my torment.

  He looked at me for a long moment, a flash of something I couldn't quite decipher in his gaze. Then he shrugged, his lips quirking into a half-smile.

  "Demons are true arseholes," he said. "They love to make us relive our worst memories, our deepest fears. And honestly, I've met a few in my line of work. It's not my place to ask you to face yours, Daphne."

  His words hung in the air between us, mingling with the tension that was a constant companion these days. It was an odd moment of understanding, one I didn't expect from someone like Drake. It seemed we both had our fair share of demons.

  In the silent aftermath, I felt a twinge of gratitude. For his presence, for his tact, for his weird, dark sense of humor.

  "Thanks," I said quietly.

  He nodded, his eyes still locked on mine. Then, without a word, he turned toward the door. Before he left, he paused, his hand on the doorknob. “One question. How did you get out of the cuffs?”

  Sleepily, I muttered, “Double jointed.”

  If he was surprised, he said nothing. "Get some rest, Daphne," he said softly.

  With that, he disappeared through the doorway, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. But this time the darkness didn't seem as suffocating, and the memories didn't feel as unbearable.

  As I drifted back to sleep, I couldn't help but wonder what demons Drake carried with him. What nightmares haunted him in the dark? But for now, I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice, and the comfort that came with knowing he was there, watching over me.

  And I shouldn’t feel at all safe. But somehow I did.

  23

  Daphne

  Something was wrong with him. Drake was hovering. More like leaning moodily in corners. But still. All day he’d watched me warily.

  After he’d watched me eat lunch, I guess he’d had enough of the silent treatment. “Christ, woman. Are you okay?”

  I didn't bother to answer. I was so far the fuck away from okay. What did he expect from me? Energy and ebullience?

  “You’re not talking. Even when you shouldn’t you talk. You have to start talking I'm—" He halted for a moment as if looking for the right word. And then he finally settled on, “I didn’t know.”

  Again, I didn't bother to respond.

  Later that evening when I was in the tub, trying to work up the energy to deal with my hair, there was a knock on the bathroom door.

  I had the bubbles way up to my shoulders, so I said, “Come in.”

  It was Drake not Reginald. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “I know you were probably needing these things before. I'm sorry it's coming so late. But before we do much else, I need to take a look at your feet again. I'm sure they're pretty torn up, and I'll need to clean them again.”

  “Okay.”

  He proceeded to take my feet in his big hands, and using a separate bowl with water and soap, he cleaned my feet thoroughly. Though he was being gentle, my feet stung. I should have waited until I had shoes. But I had been so damned impatient.

  When he released my feet and eased them to the side so that they stayed out of the water, I watched him warily. "I’m going to wash your hair now if that's okay."

  "I'll wash it myself."

  "Sure, I'll let you do that if you can lift your arms up."

  I managed to try and then groaned. Fucking hell. I couldn't. The idea of having to detangle and comb through my hair made me feel like I was swimming upstream with no hope of shore on either side.

  "I've got you. You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here. Use me. Especially since you’re hurt because of me. Reginald helped me to get you some things."

  He rummaged through the bag and pulled out a hair mask, shampoo, and a moisturizing conditioner.

  I eyed the brands. Briogeo. Well, that was fancy. With Grans bills, I never splurged on anything that nice.

  He muttered a curse. "Is it the wrong stuff? Fuck, I’ll go back straight away. What brand do you use? The lady at the store said it was luxurious or bloody something so I thought…" his voice trailed off.

  I shook my head. "No, it's perfect." Why was he so worried? A swell of emotion I didn’t understand built up in my chest. First, last night, and now this? Why was he doing this? He’d tossed me in the boot last night. He didn’t care about me.

  "The girl at the store said I’d need some brushes and wide-tooth combs for detangling. I didn't know what to get, so I got several different things."

  I recognized the tapered and then flared-out brush as one of the ones I used at home. "That one is fine. Um, I need to wash it first, or at least rinse out the mud and things."

  "Yeah. I've got a bucket for that. Just sit back against the headrest."

  I eyed him dubiously. I didn't exactly think he had any experience with my kind of hair.

  "I told you I have you. I’m taking care of you. Whatever you need, I can give you. Whether it’s a hair detangler or a shadow to chase away your nightmares. I’m the one to do it. Considering I'm the reason that your hair looks like a literal bird's nest, I need to put it right. Please let me. I want to."

  “I…” I needed the help. I couldn’t do this on my own. And he was here with the right comb and conditioner so expensive it might as well have gold dust in it.

  Let him help.

  I nodded because I had no other solution. My hair would be an awful, tangled afro nest, but at least it would be clean. “Okay, thank you.” I settled back like he asked. “So the client thing. That was a fake job, obviously."

  He hesitated so long I didn’t think he would answer for a moment. "Not really. The company does exist. I do have an LLC setup for the company when I get started."

  "Right. Let me get this bucket filled."

  He used the shower to fill the bucket. He also had had a big plastic cup with a spout.

  "If this is too hot, tell me."

  The whys of today were burning a hole in my tongue. But hell would he even answer me? "I know you said that you have to put it right, but why? Why not just leave me to it?"

  He pressed his lips together. "You were never supposed to be hurt."

  I furrowed my brow as I watched him, and he swallowed hard. "I didn't expect you to run. And that was my underestimation of you. So let's get this show on the road, yeah?"

  When he peeled off his shirt, my eyes went wide. He held up his hands. "I'm not going to touch you. I just imagine that there's going to be some mud splatter and stuff, right?"

  "Lay back."

  The water was the perfect temperature, and his hands were fucking massive. As he poured water into my hair, letting it drain down into an empty bucket, I almost wept with joy as I could feel all the grime and stickiness, the twigs, leaves, and mud pouring out.

  Despite his size, his touch was gentle. Just like it had been when he cleaned my feet. The rinsing out of debris probably took the longest as he saturated my hair. And then when he opened the deep conditioning mask, the scent of jasmine and hibiscus filled the air. Sweetly scented and relaxing. He gently parted my hair into sections with his fingers, massaging the scalp. It was so relaxing my lids started to close and my muscles started to unknot.

  "Your hair is a lot longer than it looks." He gently eased my head from side to side to make sure that he got the back of my hair.

  "Yeah, the shrinkage is real."

  He coughed a laugh, and it took me a second to realize what I'd said. And despite myself, I laughed in the tub with my captor. The man who had thrown me in a dark place and left me there.

  But with the simple act of looking after me truly, it was like the terrified girl could finally rest if even for a moment. And maybe just maybe I could forgive him.

  "Well, I guess you know all about shrinkage."

  He chuckled and said, "To some degree."

  "Ah, so you're a grower?" I said with a smirk.

  Daphne, you twit. Why the hell would you say that? Why would you reference his dick at all? This whole time you've been trying to avoid thinking about him like that, and you just brought up his dick.

  I closed my eyes, hoping he didn't notice. When I cracked one eye open, he was grinning at me. "Oh, for fuck's sake, can we just forget that I said that?"

  "Nope. Absolutely not."

  When he was done with the mask, he pulled out a plastic shower cap and put it on my head. "It says to leave it on for a few minutes."

  The stab of disappointment that he was done so soon surprised me. I liked the intimacy. "Right. Honestly, you've done enough. I can just try and rinse from here."

  "No, we've already covered this. I broke it, so to speak, and I will fix it."

  The joke was on the tip of my tongue. "Now look at that, a kidnapper with a code." Jokes were easier to hide pain with. Instead, I went with sincerity. “Thank you. No one’s ever done my hair for me since gran got too old to deal with it.”

  "I like it. Your hair is so soft. And I could play with your curls for hours. Also, I know you don't think so, but I do have a code of conduct."