Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Eight

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Any thoughts of introducing myself for the sake of politeness catapult themselves right out the window.

Fuck.

Me.

I didn't recognize her at first—and I probably wouldn't have without the black and white uniform—but now I think I recall seeing her in the distance back in the dining room briefly, not that I could focus on anything other than my inflamed bladder for more than a nanosecond the entire time. But it doesn't erase the fact that she was there; there to witness some part of the most humiliating experience of my life.

Oh, God...was she actually here the whole time?

Did she stay the night?

Holy crap, did she see the piss on the floor?!

Did she clean it?

Is she the special housekeeper he was talking about?

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—

"I was asked to wake you up for breakfast before I take my leave while the Master is away," she explains, cutting my internal panic-attack short.

A scowl creases my forehead instantly.

The...Master?

Suddenly, I can't breathe. "E-excuse me?"

She gives me a quizzical, almost incredulous look, as if I just asked her a trick question.

"The Master of the house," she says, her brow slightly arched, her head tilting to the side ever so subtly. "Master Frost."

All I have to offer in return...is an extremely puzzled expression.

Jesus, what the hell is this, old country?

I'd burst out laughing if I wasn't in so much pain.

This is a modern mansion, and she has an average, all-American accent, but the way she speaks—especially when referring to the person I now know as Lucifer himself—is so formal. Almost rigid.

And straight up bizarre.

Still, my brows jump in surprise, slightly thrown off by the knowledge of his absence.

"A-away?" I frown, confused. "Do you know where he went?" I don't even know why I'm asking. After last night, I'm not sure I want to know that detail.

"No, Ma'am," is her simple, direct response. "He didn't relay that information to me."

"Well...do you know when he'll be back?" I press.

This time, I do know why I'm asking. The sooner he gets back, the sooner we can get this...this shit-show over and done with, and the sooner I can go home and, if it's even possible, actually start to process what's already proven to be a gigantic, hot mess of a weekend.

"I'm sorry, he didn't specify that, either, Ma'am."

Sigh.

Of course, he didn't.

She sets the tray on the bedside table, gesturing toward the glass with an encouraging nod. How could she not? I'm practically salivating for it, my mouth parched beyond belief as if I haven't so much as seen water in weeks when it's all that filled my mind—and bladder—less than twenty-four hours ago.

She offers a brief, slightly unsure smile that makes me want to shrivel up and die under the comforter.

"I'll draw you a bath," is all she says before heading toward a set of double doors some feet away—but the way she looks at me screams, "you could certainly use one" even though she doesn't actually say it.

My brows furrow as I settle into yet another frown, and I quickly feel both mortified and bewildered, not just because of her telling expression, but the statement that accompanied it.

Draw me a bath?

You've got to be kidding...

"D-don't worry about it, I'll do it myself," I call after her.

She turns to face me again, her countenance more or less neutral now.

"It's really no trouble, Ma'am."

I shake my head adamantly. "I-I can do it. You can go."

I'm practically begging her to leave, my tone turning desperate.

Tilda smiles but her voice is firm. "Begging your pardon, Ma'am, but I must insist on this given your...current state."

I damn near shrivel up right then and there.

My entire face incinerates itself, invisible flames shooting right off my ears. I might be teeming with pain, but I can read through her words. The implication of her statement is crystal clear.

My shoulders slump with a tired, relenting sigh, signaling my agreement, and I reluctantly nod for her to go.

With that, she resumes her advancement to what I can only assume is the bathroom.

Even though I know she's probably right, my irrational sense of pride is still hurt.

I mean, what do I look like, a child? An invalid?

Sigh.

Okay, okay, fine. That's total bullshit. If I'm being honest, it's not really an issue of pride. In fact, it's the exact opposite; an issue of complete and utter embarrassment. Of indignity. Of shame. I just want to be alone right now. And the absolute last thing I need is for someone—another woman, no less—to see me like this, crumbling under the aftermath of the indescribable humiliation I've been subjected to.

My cheeks scorch themselves a million times over, sheer embarrassment forcing my gaze downward, away from Tilda as she disappears behind the large door.

I clutch the sheets to my chest, feeling impossibly awkward, waiting in uncertainty, thinking of what to do next.

God, this sucks...

A few seconds later, I hear the sound of running water, punctuated by some intermittent shuffling. This is so weird; this novelty of being waited on first thing in the morning by a stranger in an unfamiliar place. And right after all the events that transpired last night, no less.

She doesn't seem the least bit affected or bothered by what's clearly going on under her boss' roof—or his terms of employment. Then again, maybe she's seen and done this enough times that she's immune now? Granted, it's her job—supposedly—but between her dutiful diligence and politely referring to me as "Ma'am" despite my very obvious reason for being in this mansion, I can't even begin—and don't really want—to think about how many other women have preceded me, how many in my position she's had to wait on. How many more will come after I leave.

God, my head hurts.

I'm only minutes into it but this already bizarre day is unfolding in the worst possible way.

Speaking of...

What time is it?

I look around, my eyes darting left and right in search of a clock—

And then it hits me.

My phone! Where the hell is my phone?!

And my duffel bag?

I could have sworn Frost left it here yesterday...

For the first time since I woke up, I realize that none of my belongings are with me. Not a single one is in sight. Including the mangled clothes I had on.

I can't help but stare blankly into space for several seconds, thinking about just how surreal this all is: being butt-naked in bed, in the mansion of a man who's supposedly paying me for sex—but has instead indulged in nothing but sick, twisted "games" for which I have nothing to show but my current state of constant physical agony—while the devil in question is nowhere to be found and some Amazonian woman who is, without a doubt, judging the hell out of me "draws me a bath" several feet away.

After many moments that go by too quickly, the sound of running water ceases and the Valkyrie comes back, her doe eyes unblinking as they regard my form.

"Would you like some help to the bath, Ma'am?"

"No!" I say right away, almost curtly, my voice rising before I can stop myself.

My tone comes off a bit hostile, taken aback by her offer, but I feel bad as soon as I blurt the answer.

This is beyond awkward, not to mention embarrassing as fuck. No arguments there. But it's not an excuse to bite her head off. It's obvious she's only trying to help. She's not the one responsible for my current state, and she doesn't deserve to be the target of my anger.

Unlike her employer.

"I-I mean...there's no need. But thank you," I add, feeling a bit sheepish, but mostly frustrated with this entire exchange.

"Very well, Ma'am," she curtsies, smiling as though there's nothing at all abnormal about our conversation—if you can even call it that. "I'll leave you to it, then. Your breakfast will be downstairs when you're done."

And with that, she walks out of the room, disappearing as quietly as she came, giving me the privacy I so desperately need.

My entire body deflates, exhaling a million sighs of relief as soon as the door clicks closed.

My eyes dart toward the bathroom entrance again. While I'll probably never be able to get over waking up to a strange woman assigned to wait on me after a night of...well...hell, washing away the remnants of said night—if only the physical ones—is precisely what I need right now.

As if in preparation, I take long gulps of the smaller source of water she'd set next to me, wincing as my jaw protests even the subtle act of drinking. But my thirst won't let me slow down in spite of the pain, and before I know it, I'm chugging the entire glass in one go. The cool liquid feels like heaven on my raw throat, tempering the incredibly parched sensation on my tongue. I moan a loud, contented sigh as soon as I swallow the last drop, realizing I was even thirstier than I thought.

For a few minutes, I just sit there, empty glass in hand, breathing hard, staring down at the plush comforter absently, my thoughts unusually empty for once--no doubt from sheer exhaustion. Eventually, I set the glass aside, bracing myself for the hell I know it will be getting to the bathtub. I feel every muscle in my body protest as I lean forward, propping myself completely upright on shaky elbows. After what feels like a century, I finally manage to slide off the bed, but like an awful reminder, my toes throb viciously the second they connect with the floor.

"This is going to be harder than I thought," I mutter, my voice raspy beyond recognition.

It takes all the strength I have to push myself off the bed, but as soon as I do, I realize—much too late—just how weak I am, and I fall to my knees like a giant bag of potatoes, no warning or resistance to my lumbering descent.

Flesh and bone collide with expensive carpet, but the plush fibers and hefty price tag don't lessen the burn from the rough contact. Sharp jolts of pain sprint up my legs, compounding the existing ache in them.

My hands shoot out on reflex, partially breaking my fall, but at the cost of my already bruised palms. Lines of fire erupt from their centers, the scabs reopening, and an unexpected wave of nausea washes over me. But the impact is a much bigger blow to my impossibly fatigued shoulders. They slump instantly, and searing balls of fire take up residence within their limp muscles. The pain is so overwhelming that I begin to swoon from it, my ears ringing, my head swimming with blood rush as a spell of dizziness hijacks me, rendering me immobile for several minutes.

Take it slow, Roni, I tell myself. Breathe. Okay? Just breathe.

It takes a few minutes, but I manage to stay afloat, the lightheaded feeling fading away slowly but surely. Once I regain most of my composure, I start for the bathroom again. Not wanting to risk another fall, I begin to crawl on my hands and knees to the tub, the decision pretty much made for me given the fact that I'm clearly unable to stay on my feet. Still painful but a lot more safe. And right now, safety is of the utmost importance.

What is only a few yards feels like a thousand miles, and after what seems to be a torturous hour—but is probably no more than several minutes—I'm practically belly-down on the bathroom floor, the cold tile jolting against my bare skin as I slink ahead in agony like a slug doused in salt, inching closer and closer to my destination.

Good God...I think I'm going to be sick.

Sigh.

Tilda was right.

As much as I hate to admit it, this would have been so much easier with her help...plus, I could have spared myself all this carpet burn and a potential shoulder dislocation. Still, it would be even worse if she hadn't shown up and drawn me the bath at all. Right now, even the most trivial, mundane actions—like bending over and turning on a faucet—would be nothing short of calamity after the night Frost put me through.

I inadvertently look up to find perspiration coating the tall, wide mirrors, the steam in the room still visible, fogging them up completely.

I freeze for several seconds, my body rigid and immobile as my gaze remains locked on the invisible glass.

A small, quivering sigh leaves me at the sight.

I didn't even think about it before now, but I'm incredibly grateful for the small blessing. I'm not in the least bit prepared to see my reflection just yet. To come face to face with the aftermath of last night.

My attention swings back to the task at hand, and soon, I'm faced with the massive tub in front of me.

Pulling myself up and getting into it turns out to be a Herculean task all on its own but, somehow, I prevail. I damn near weep when I finally manage to haul my clunky, uncooperative body into the large, porcelain bath. I don't even have the luxury of a gradual dip, practically falling in with a loud splash. Perfectly heated water simultaneously attacks and embraces me, stinging and massaging my body all at once, submerging my bruised, welting skin.

I wince against the immediate pain, trying to stomach the discomfort of sharp, angry prickles on my palms and wrists, gritting my teeth against the renewed buzzing sensation on too many cuts and bruises to count.

But after a few moments in the hot water, the pain eventually begins to subside, the swarm of unpleasant pins and needles replaced by dull throbbing here and there.

Eventually, I lean back and let go, settling in and trying to relax, feeling my achy muscles starting to loosen ever so slightly, some of the built up tension seeping out of them.

The longest sigh of contentment tears itself out of me, and my eyes flutter closed against the pleasant relief. But even when they remain shut as I bask in the sensation of being completely immersed from the neck down, even as I resist the urge to open them from fear of seeing my body in its current condition, I can't stop myself from silently pondering the dangerous enigma that is Dexter Frost...and everything that has happened already—including his little "lessons" on water.

And even though I try my damnedest not to, I can't help but think about what lies ahead.

What else he has in store for this unfathomable weekend.

***

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