Chapter 8: Rise of a Queen: Chapter 8

I don’t sleep for the entire night.

I can’t.

It’s like I’ve been pushed back to eleven years ago, to those safe houses and in police custody. My body is scratched and my existence is humiliated.

Back then, I couldn’t sleep much, and now, it’s the same.

Survival is a bitch.

The moment it kicks in, all your brain is attuned to is the need to appease it. To fucking survive.

The game I prayed to never play again is back, and this time, I can’t drop out of the Witness Protection Program or forge a new identity.

I’m stuck in a gilded cage, and if I stay here for more, my fate will be just like that of Alicia’s.

That’s the only thought my brain is able to conjure up. That if I don’t get out of here, I’ll die.

I spend the long dawn and early morning hours searching around the room for a way out.

My phone isn’t here; I lost it somewhere. The landline is busy, which means Jonathan must’ve suspended it. I left my laptop in the car, so that’s out.

Every now and then, I spy on the buff blokes through the window in case they change position and I get a chance to escape.

They don’t. Both remain standing there as statues.

Not that I expected less from Jonathan’s level of control freak.

Around eight in the morning, I’m in my wardrobe, searching for something, a modern device or anything I can use to call for help.

The door opens and I startle, my injured knee hitting the wood panel. I wince, using my other leg to stand upright and bending the hurt one.

Jonathan waltzes inside, carrying a tray of food and wearing his impeccable suit as if this is an ordinary morning.

I can’t help feeling relief at how his shirt is clean, not smudged with blood like earlier. It hides most of the scratches, but there’s a long one that peeks from the edge of his collar.

I swallow at the view. It’s reddened compared to when I last saw it. Not that I should be sorry. He’s the one keeping me against my will.

“You haven’t slept.” He places the tray on my makeup console, flips over the coffee table I used to block the door during my failed escape, then slides the plate across it.

“Do you have a camera in here, or something?” I study the corners of the room because I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.

“Not currently, no. But that’s a good idea.”

Damn it, there I go putting ideas in his messed up head. I bite my tongue to stop from spouting nonsense. That will only give him the upper hand more than he already has.

“Sit down.” He motions at the sofa with a tilt of his arrogant nose. “Eat.”

“No.”

“Do you want me to shove the food down your throat, is that it?”

“I want you to let me go.”

“Are you going to sit the fuck down and eat, or will I have to do it?”

I jut my chin and realise my mistake too late. Jonathan reaches me in a few long strides and throws me over his shoulder as if I’m a sack of potatoes. A squeal rips from me as my world tips upside down, my hair falling to his thigh-level. Blood rushes to my head from this position, and I hit his back over and over, ignoring how my palms sting.

“Stop that or it’ll reopen your wounds.”

“Then let me go.” I hit him some more.

Slap.

I freeze as fire erupts in my arse. My thighs clench, and I can feel the wetness coating my knickers.

Shit. Fuck. No.

This can’t be happening. Why the hell am I still turned on by this? I shouldn’t be. He…he’s going to hurt me, to kill me. Like he did with my sister.

However, a part of my brain is numbed to that fact as if it doesn’t exist. A part of my brain horrifies me because that idiot doesn’t think Jonathan would ever hurt me.

That part felt no threat when Jonathan walked into the room. If anything, it was something completely different that I don’t like to name.

“There. Good girl, though you’re not acting like it lately.” He slowly drops me on the sofa and I scoot to the edge, pulling the nightgown down, nearly ripping the straps.

Jonathan’s head tilts to the side, eyes devouring my chest in that purely lustful way. “I like the view.”

I stare down in horror and sure enough, in my attempt to cover my legs, I exposed my breasts and a hard rosy nipple peeks through. I let the cloth snap back into place and glare at Jonathan, who seems…slightly disappointed.

The moment ends when he points at the food.

“No.”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

My stomach growls as if agreeing with his statement. I ignore it and the embarrassment that comes with it.

“I wasn’t joking about shoving it down your throat, Aurora. You know I can do it, so don’t make me act on it.”

“You don’t get to keep me against my will, then force me to eat as if I’m a prisoner, okay?”

“You’re not a prisoner. You get to walk out of here any second you like if you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you since last night.” His voice turns lethal with every word and I know that he’s losing his patience.

Jonathan and patience aren’t on the best of terms, even on good days, let alone on bad ones. He’s used to getting what he wants with a snap of his fingers and now that he isn’t, he’ll get more ruthless with every moment I remain silent.

But on the other hand, if I tell him about the message Alicia sent me, I’m never getting out. That’s like accusing him of murder, and someone like Jonathan won’t let anyone throw something like that around. He’ll smother it in no time.

Forget about the six-month deal. He’ll have me follow my sister as soon as he deems necessary.

“So what’s it going to be?” he asks with that sharp tone.

I stare at him, bemused.

“The food, Aurora. Are you going to eat or should we go with my plan?”

I glare at him as I grab a piece of toast. If I’m going to get out of here, I’ll need every bit of my energy, so I won’t refuse the food that’s able to give me strength.

My palm stings when I close it around the bread and I flex it a little to alleviate the pain.

Jonathan seems to notice that, too. He sits beside me, and I attempt to scoot away, but I’m already at the edge. His thigh touches mine, and I try to ignore the warmth or the woodsy scent emanating from him like it’s his second skin.

He takes the toast from between my fingers, puts butter on it like I usually do, then brings it to my mouth. I try to snatch it back, but he keeps it out of reach.

“I can eat on my own.”

“Not after you injured your palms and reopened the wounds.”

“But —”

“Stop being fucking stubborn. Open that mouth and eat.”

I purse my lips, once again feeling like a child being reprimanded. It’s the damn authoritative tone, I swear. The way he lashes it out with that firmness has always gotten to me.

Deciding to pick my battles, I slowly open and take a tentative bite of the toast to not trigger the cut on my lip. Jonathan also detects that fact since he places it back on the plate.

God. Is there anything this man doesn’t notice? He’s so attuned to details, it’s insane.

He uses the knife to cut it into small pieces, but he doesn’t use the fork to feed me. No, he goes with his bare hands. Every time he slips something in my mouth, his lean, masculine fingers scrape against my skin, and a shiver overtakes me.

It’s like we’re back to the days when we used to have breakfast together as he wrenched one orgasm out of me after another.

I hate that I’m thinking about it.

I hate that it feels weird to not sit on his lap like usual.

Snap out of it, Aurora.

The food melts in my mouth before I’m even able to chew properly. My stomach stops making sounds as Jonathan fills it with everything on the plate.

He keeps feeding me, and I keep eating. I tell myself it’s to get my strength back, but each time his fingers brush against my skin, I shudder.

“Is it because of the attack?” His cool voice drifts around me like a lullaby.

What? A lullaby? Jonathan? This must be the lack of sleep talking. Jonathan and lullabies are as far apart as they could be.

I continue chewing on a piece of egg to give me an excuse to not speak. My hands lie limp on my lap as if they don’t know what to do. Usually, they would be picking food while Jonathan’s fingers are busy with other parts of my body.

The balance is off, and the fact that it’ll never be the same again fills me with a sudden sense of grief.

“Or is it Maxim’s interview?”

My blood runs cold at that, and I stop chewing for a second before resuming. Of course, Jonathan doesn’t miss it.

“I assume it’s both.” He cocks his head to the side. “Do you think you’re eligible to have another rebirth to escape this?”

I clamp my lips shut.

“You cannot have a rebirth when you didn’t finish the first one, Aurora.”

My voice is calm, considering my internal mess. “What do you know about rebirths when you were born with a silver spoon hanging from your mouth?”

He scoffs. Jonathan scoffs. The entire motion is so weird that I take some time to commit it to memory. “If anyone here was born with a silver spoon, it’s you, wild one. Just because that spoon was snatched from your mouth in your teens doesn’t mean it wasn’t always there. Maxim gave you everything you wanted, didn’t he? You were his spoiled little princess.”

“Stop it.”

“That’s why you failed your rebirth, Aurora,” he continues as if I haven’t said a word. “You can’t be reborn if you still can’t get out of his shadow.”

“I am not in his shadow.”

“It looks that way, though. What did I tell you about how he’ll reappear? That he doesn’t like being forgotten. Are you that surprised he’s dragging you with him? It’s his way to retaliate for what you did eleven years ago, and if you keep giving him leverage, he won’t hesitate to use it against you.”

His words have the impact of a natural disaster. Sudden and wreaking. It’s not that I haven’t thought of it that way before, it’s that I always thought I’d escape my dad. That I don’t live in the shadow he cast over my life.

That’s why I changed everything we used to do together. I even dyed my hair blonde at some point, and I hate the blonde me. She was a coward and a thief who jumped from motel rooms.

“How about you?” My voice is steady but low in volume.

He pauses cutting an avocado. It’s been secretly becoming my favourite new food. “Me?”

“If I keep giving you leverage, won’t you also use it against me?”

“I don’t want to, but I will if you force me.”

“Me? Force you? You’re the one who’s forcing me right now.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Or what?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that.” He shoves a piece of avocado in my mouth, shutting down my protest. “And I’m not forcing you. If I did, you wouldn’t have a choice, but you do.”

I swallow the piece, commemorating its taste to memory. Who knows if he’ll take this small luxury away? Jonathan enforces the most sadistic type of cruelty. He makes you get used to things, then snatches them away as if they never existed. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep better at night?”

“I’m well aware of who and what I am. I don’t have to delude myself, Aurora. You do.”

“W-what?”

“You’ve been squirming and rubbing your thighs since I sat beside you. It doesn’t matter how much you tell yourself you don’t want me or you don’t want to get out of this situation. You and I both know your body doesn’t lie.”

“That is not true.” I’m thankful my voice doesn’t betray me.

Jonathan tilts his head, and I expect him to try and prove me wrong like he always does.

Pushing my buttons and cementing his supremacy is one of his control-freak methods that he doesn’t hesitate to use.

So I’m surprised when he stands. “Follow me.”

“To where?”

“Do I need to throw you over my shoulder again?”

I jerk up, not wanting to feel whatever the hell I did when he spanked my arse earlier.

He steps into the bathroom, and I stop at the threshold.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asks in a clipped voice, his nostrils flaring.

“Why are we here?”

He reaches into the cabinet and retrieves another first aid kit. Now that I think about it, he seems to have those everywhere. Almost like he’s expecting to injure himself in every room he walks in. Which is weird, considering that Jonathan is far from being the clumsy type.

He retrieves something from the box and closes it. “You need to shower.”

“I can do that on my own.”

“Not with your injuries.”

Before I can protest, he appears in front of me and wraps what seems like a plastic waterproof bandage around both my palms.

He then kneels and I’m momentarily stunned by the fact that Jonathan is willingly kneeling at my feet. It’s a sight I never thought I’d witness in my lifetime.

His fingers strap a similar plastic thingie around my knee. I resist the urge to close my eyes as his skin lingers on mine for a second too long.

Then he runs the water in the bath, and I remain there, torn between escaping back to the room and having him chase me — and inevitably ruining whatever gentle side he’s showing — and staying there.

He pours the bath product, the apple-scented one, and the smell fills the bathroom’s space.

When he’s satisfied with the temperature, he lets the water run. He faces me as he removes his jacket and tie, hangs them on the towel hanger, and rolls the sleeves of his shirt to above his elbows.

He’s barely showing any skin, but watching him revealing his arms is like a porn show all on its own. The only reason I don’t look away is because I refuse to lose my ground.

Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.

“Remove the nightgown.”

I lift my chin up and don’t comply. If I follow his order, it’ll feel like I’m agreeing to whatever madness he’s planning.

“If you want something done, do it yourself.”

“What did I say about that attitude, Aurora?”

I huff, but the sound soon vanishes when he grabs the straps, his fingers gliding over my skin along with them as he lowers them down my body.

Staring at a fixed point in the bathroom, I pretend my flesh isn’t tingling and my face isn’t heating with the mere effect of his presence.

Soon enough, the nightgown pools at my feet. His gaze slides down my nakedness as if it’s the first time he’s seen me.

His fingers stroke over my scar and the tattoo, and something in his eyes and the way his lashes flutter against his cheek tells me he knows exactly how I got it.

The weight of his attention on that part of me is like reliving the time when I struggled to move from one corner to the other to get to the pharmacy, buy medicine, and suture the wound.

It was a mess, but I managed to close it. However, when it became worse, not better, I didn’t have someone like him to tend to it, and I was so clueless about self-care back then.

“You closed it yourself.” His thumb slides across the skin with a deceptive tenderness. “You had an infection, too. It must’ve hurt. You must’ve been feverish.”

“H-how do you know that?”

“It’s the same attacker, isn’t it?” His attention drifts from my scar to my face.

The way he’s looking at me, that focus, and the anger that…somehow doesn’t seem to be directed at me, overthrows me.

I push him away and storm to the tub. In my haste to get inside and hide my scar and the tattoo, I slip.

My shriek fills the bathroom, but instead of hitting my head against the edge, I’m held steady by a strong hand.

“Easy.” The tenor of his voice is that of care.

No. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.

I flop under the bubbles, hiding my nakedness from sight. The water is cool on my skin, not too hot and not too cold. It’s the perfect temperature — as usual.

Jonathan is silent as he retrieves the apple-scented shampoo and pours it on my head.

I try to zone out, but the way his fingers glide through my hair in slow, measured strokes robs me of my breath.

He doesn’t even seem bothered by the stubborn knots at the back of my head. Since my hair is long, I always have the hardest time washing it.

Yet he takes his time with the knots, one by one, until my hair falls smoothly to my back. He holds it above the water as he rinses it, then ties it at the top.

Jonathan isn’t the type to show tenderness, so it’s definitely not to be taken for granted when he does.

But now that he’s doing this under these circumstances, I don’t know how to react. Is this a ploy? A game?

He grabs the sponge and uses it to lather my body. He doesn’t linger on my nipples and barely touches me between my legs. His only intent seems to be to bathe me. That’s all. I’m the one who struggles not to close my thighs when his fingers trail down my stomach.

The bath is finished way too soon, and he rinses me, stands me up, then wraps me in a fresh, soft towel.

It’s too harsh against my heated skin. He might’ve not touched me in a sexual way, but my body has already gotten the signals. My nipples are hard and pointy, and my core keeps freaking pulsing.

Stop it, damn you.

As he dries me, Jonathan takes his time running the towel against my aching nipples. I nearly topple over as I swallow the moans trying to slip through.

The spark in his eyes suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is doing it on purpose.

“You’ll talk, Aurora. If I have to use your body against you, I will.”