Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two

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My butt cheeks clench involuntarily, the action provoking renewed throbbing on the bruised flesh that I have to grit my teeth against. An overwhelming sense of foreboding floods my brain, and I go stiff until my muscles cramp, my body turning impossibly rigid without my permission as I try desperately to shove the thought of something else that's stiff and rigid sliding between my—

No, no, no, no!!!

Don't you dare even think it!

My eyes flutter rapidly, my heart palpitating in tandem with them as I fight to banish the possibility of things I'm too scared to put a name to, let alone imagine. My shoulders tense to the point of pain, and goosebumps resurface with a vengeance along the entire length of my back, making me shiver uncontrollably. I feel impossibly guarded, my upper body slouching into a hunch, wanting nothing more than to curl into myself and disappear.

Frost meets my eyes again, seeming to notice my unease—which isn't exactly difficult considering just how tightly wound I am. He continues to look at me expectantly, the silent command mirrored in his icy gaze.

He won't repeat himself.

Mine swings between him and the kit, unveiled distrust reflected in it, causing me to hesitate—and with very good reason. But his stare is unwavering, firm and unapologetic. I exhale in resignation, reluctantly putting my palm out toward him even though every cell in my body resists the action.

I swallow with difficulty, watching his every move like a hawk, feeling a weird, conflicting mesh of doubt, suspicion, uncertainty, anticipation, and something akin to hope, but not quite, my blood buzzing with adrenaline, my muscles contracting, preparing to retreat at any second.

He takes my hand in his without hesitation, the action surprisingly gentle, his thumb lightly grazing my palm, tracing over the bruised, broken skin.

My lungs instantly forget how to work, seizing for several seconds as I hold my breath impulsively at the sensation of his fingers, their size and strength a complete contrast to the warmth they hold and the unexpected lightness of his touch, and I can't help but stare at the way his large hand easily engulfs mine, the sight both incredible and utterly unnerving, a solid reminder of my physical disadvantage against him.

The action is clinical, his eyes assertive as they roam over them, and yet it feels...kind of...intimate.

My brain does a one-eighty as soon as the thought forms, and I realize just how ridiculous that sounds.

Ha! Intimate? Bitch, please. The only thing intimate here is his bizarre relationship with the damn kit.

He's completely focused, his expression serious, and I tear my eyes away when I realize I've been gawking at him in spite of myself, replacing the striking lines and shadows of his profile with the site of his attention.

A series of small, jagged cuts stare back at me, the wounds superficial enough to heal on their own but deep enough to remind you they're there. Even so, I'd all but forgotten about them, the debilitating pain along my arms, wrists, toes, and jaw more than enough to distract me from the relatively insignificant throbbing in the center of my palms.

After some examining, Frost releases my hand briefly, reaching for a Q-tip and some sort of ointment in a freakishly large tube, squeezing a dotted amount on one end of the cotton bud before dabbing it efficiently over my palm. I flinch at the contact, my eyes squinting against the sharp, initial sting, but the sudden movement only reminds me of all the other pain in my body.

"Easy," he says, his voice deep and resonant, laced with an indescribable quality that makes it both evocative and frightening, but his tone is gentle and...reassuring?

I can't decide if it's a command or a condolence, but I swear I actually feel it shoot straight to my pussy. I struggle to swallow, my other hand still clutching at the front of my robe, my thighs slamming against each other on impulse, and the involuntary action only introduces an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

My eyes remain off him, unable to handle the combination of his voice and the feel of his hand at the same time, and my reaction only ignites my already present anger toward him.

Thankfully, the pain subsides fairly quickly, fanning out into a dull throb once more, the cooling sensation of the ointment offering relief for the pain it causes.

He repeats the process on my other hand, finally placing long, polka-dotted Band-Aids along each one once he's done.

I frown, eyeing the design with more than a little skepticism and incredulity, wondering if they're supposed to make me feel better or simply make a statement.

"These are thin and perforated without being flimsy," he says, smoothing the ends of a Band-Aid against my palm to secure it, "so they'll allow the cuts to properly ventilate and the ointment—which is an antibacterial and antifungal—to do its job without any interference. Plus, the magnesium flakes I asked Tilda to add to your bath water would have already accelerated the healing process. They're not deep so they'll likely form adhesions today and should be healed up by the end of the weekend."

My attention turns back in his direction before I know it and I stare at him with slightly wide eyes, my brows raised. I don't say a thing, my mouth parted in silence. Frost meets my gaze, his eyes cold yet...vibrant.

"What?" he says, noting the obvious surprise on my face.

"Nothing," I mutter, looking away once more before nervously clearing my throat. "I just didn't think you'd noticed," I add, my fingers gently flexing on impulse, the action enhancing the tacky sensation of the Band-Aid and the cuts beneath it.

I can feel his gaze still on me, its intensity upping the tension in the air even more.

"I wouldn't be a very good doctor if I didn't notice things like this, now would I?" is his simple response.

I don't have anything to say to that, trying not to let myself think the statement means more than it does.

"I noticed from the moment you walked in," he continues. "The bruises appeared fresh and had tiny specks of gravel in them so I figured you must have gotten them recently. Most likely within the compound."

My eyes dart back to his, wider this time, even more shocked.

Suddenly, I find myself feeling both utterly amazed and extremely unnerved at how observant he is, recalling every instance he's stared at me with that lingering, assessing look, wondering what else he's noticed and taken mental note of—including now.

But my shock is quickly followed by yet another bout of anger, appalled that he'd known since yesterday, from the very get-go and still chose to torture me the way he had. What if they'd gotten infected during that stupid "Condomlympics" game of his?

"The detergent you washed your hands with in the hygiene station yesterday was a forty-eight-hour antiseptic and antimicrobial disinfectant," he says, as if reading my thoughts.

It's down-right freaky, beyond unsettling, and for a minute there, I'm almost convinced I said the words out loud. However, a part of me wishes he hadn't said his. I want to be mad at him. And I truly have every reason to be...yet...I feel my anger dissipating even as I struggle to hold on to it, giving narrow passage for a twisted, warped sense of gratitude, my guarded demeanor softening ever-so-slightly without my consent.

As much as I hate to admit it, I realize now that he was so adamant about me washing all the way up to my elbows for my own good and wasn't just being an obnoxious, anal, overzealous asshat–even though I still very much know he's all those things...and more.

"Three thirty-seven PM," he says suddenly, his voice effortlessly catapulting me out of my thoughts.

"Excuse me?" I frown, utterly confused.

"You asked me what the time is earlier. Three thirty-seven PM," he repeats without even checking his watch, as if his very presence here is premeditated for this exact moment. It's unnerving, but the actual answer throws me off even more.

Jesus...

"How...how long was I asleep for?" I blurt.

He arches his brow incredulously. "I'm not psychic, Ramona. I wasn't present at the exact moment you woke up. Perhaps you'd like to rephrase your question."

His answer is clinical, his tone even, his voice leveled. But the last statement isn't a suggestion, or even a mere remark. Not by a long shot.

His gaze intensifies, the cold, diluted sapphire of his eyes seeming to morph into blue flames right in front of me, gleaming in the daylight, markedly different from how they looked against the backdrop of moonlit darkness, and they easily give away the implication of his seemingly harmless proposition. He's telling me to come right out and say the words clearly written on my face.

"How long was I in there for?" I ask, the question leaving me in barely above a whisper, as if I can't decide whether or not I want him to hear it.

"I don't understand the question," he says bluntly. "Again, I'm not psychic. You'll have to be specific if you expect me to know what you're talking about."

I inhale deeply, wanting so badly to punch him in the face for his arrogant, patronizing response. I really shouldn't be surprised or expect any different, but his lack of consideration and utter disregard for my feelings makes my blood bubble, especially when the subject in question is this sensitive. But getting angry won't solve anything, and it certainly won't get me the answers I need.

I swallow, trying to organize my thoughts, thinking of the best way to phrase what I want to say.

"When...I mean...what time did...my punishment end?"

"You're basing your question on the assumption that your punishment has ended," he returns, something wicked flashing in his eyes. "And you know what they say about people who make ass-umptions...don't you, Ramona?"

I blanch in an instant, feeling every last drop of blood drain from my body as soon as the words leave his lips.

My heart leaps like it just got doused in Red Bull, bungee-jumping up my throat and staying there. All my other organs pause, ceasing to function of their own accord. Images of the crop flash right before my eyes again, and the haunting recollection of Frost's leather whip swiftly interjects all my thoughts. I can practically hear the sound of it, swishing sharply, cutting through the eerie, silent night, just before it collides with my skin.

I shift in my seat uncomfortably, remembering the loud smacks, how they preceded and clashed with my screams. The bruises on my ass echo the visual reminder, seeming to reawaken all over again, the irritated, swollen flesh pulsating wildly at the memory, as if in preparation for another lash.

I stare at Frost dumbfounded, feeling myself crumble under the weight of his statement, and the implication of what he just said is ten times worse than a direct kick to the skull.

I can't speak for several seconds, my expression blank, my thoughts freezing from shock that makes my tongue go lax.

A nauseating sense of hopelessness fills me, and I can do little more than watch him in disbelief, feeling myself fade into a state of both numbness and mental overload. I don't even know what to say. How to react.

I swallow, blinking rapidly against a quickly-rising wave of fear, my heart sprinting as his words sink all the way in.

The taste of bile stains my throat, and I can't stop the violent tremor that rips through me.

"While I wouldn't make a habit of it," he continues, cutting through my visible shock and regarding my paltry demeanor with an intense, unwavering look, "your assumption just so happens to be correct this time."

My eyes widen, and my heart beats even faster, unsure if it should trust what I think I just heard.

"After a total of seven hours and six minutes, I think you learned your lesson," he says, his gaze still fixed on me. "Frankly, I had no other option but to end your punishment. When I came back, it was obvious your body was too contorted for you to possibly keep your feet on the numbers any longer."

My eyes flutter closed at the memory, and I pull my hand away from his impulsively, but he doesn't let go, his fingers clamping around mine firmly. I struggle to swallow once. Twice. Three times. A considerable pause ensues, only the sounds of our mismatched breathing audible for several moments. My entire body goes rigid, and I remember far too vividly just how much every bit of it had ached, the pain unending, feeling exhausted beyond belief. For some reason, it's even more upsetting to hear him say it out loud. I still can't meet his gaze when I can speak again.

"Did...did I...pass out?" I can't even recognize my own voice, impossibly strained and raspy, cracking under the weight of a question I wish I didn't have to ask.

"Yes," he says simply.

Everything pauses the second the word leaves his lips. My heart. My breaths. Time itself.

The entire world comes to a standstill, grinding to an abrupt halt...before falling right off its axis.

I find myself shoved head-first into an indescribable, unbridged gap, wedged between completely uncharted sentiments, suspended in a virtual intermission that I'm too paralyzed to even process.

Simultaneously emotional and numb.

That's what I am right now.

"You didn't blow the whistle..." Frost continues suddenly, breaking the tense, awkward silence that stretches on, his voice low, his eyes narrowing at me, but the gesture comes off as one of incredulity instead of annoyance. "Why?"

The statement throws me off completely, and the last addition makes me even more scatter-brained, my eyes bulging, my brows rising in utter confusion. His unexpected line of questioning takes me completely by surprise. That's not at all what I was expecting. And I have absolutely nothing to say to it, the abrupt redirect more than enough to render me even more speechless than I was.

I think I see the tiniest flicker of concern in his eyes, but it's gone before I can even blink.

And then I feel absolutely ridiculous.

It's obvious mine aren't functioning right. I'm clearly just imagining things, the side-effect of a brain that's still fried from yesterday.

He releases my hand abruptly. "Finish your food," he says, not waiting for an answer, gathering the rest of the items and placing them back into the kit. "You must be famished given you didn't eat last night...and you'll need your energy today."

I swallow hard at that statement, shuddering at the thought of what he has planned. He said the same thing at dinner yesterday.

I resume my meal hesitantly, hunger overpowering my self-consciousness. Still, I feel him eyeing me intently. I try to ignore it, struggling to keep my mind on nothing but the simple acts of chewing and swallowing, but the renewed silence only makes me more anxious.

I clear my throat again. "Aren't you going to eat?" I ask, chancing a look in his direction, trying to break the ice and ever-looming tension. "Seeing as I'm not depriving you of food as per your "guest principle"," I add snarkily, unable to help myself as I remember his ridiculous, self-imposed rule.

"Oh, I most definitely will," he returns without hesitation, something dangerous flashing in his eyes, and I almost choke on a blueberry at the way he says the words.

I have to tear mine away from him all over again, every last trace of sarcasm disappearing, my heart pounding anew as he continues to stare at me. I try desperately to act aloof, pretending I'm not affected by the intensity and severity of his gaze even as I silently disintegrate on the inside.

Please stop looking at me like that!

My brain spins like a cyclone, trying to think of something to say, a way to shift the current energy or change the subject, but I come up short. So I resign myself to eating quietly, my eyes fixed on the food and utensils in front of me even as I sense his still watching my every move, setting every inch of my body on fire.

Frost continues to sit next to me in silence, not a single word leaving his lips even after I'm done. His inaudible presence is beyond unnerving, and I swear to God, I've never felt so self-conscious in my life.

"You haven't taken them," he says abruptly after several moments, once again breaking the disquieting silence while motioning toward the saucer with the red pills.

My eyes dart back to his, reluctantly meeting his intense blue gaze with a wary, suspicious look.

"It's just aspirin," he shrugs, noting my impossibly guarded expression. "I figured you'd need some."

That stuns me, and suddenly, I feel kind of sheepish for my apprehension, but at the same time, I don't know if I can trust he's telling the truth.

"Of course, you're under no obligation to," he adds, as if reading my mind again. "You're completely free to forgo them altogether if you like. It's up to you how much discomfort you want to endure throughout the day."

My lungs seize at his last statement. The way he says it implies that there's more to come. Perhaps a lot more.

His tone is nonchalant but his eyes are telling; he's offering me an opportunity to pacify my pain as much as possible—one that he might not offer again, especially if I turn it down the first time.

Before I know it, I'm downing both pills like they're about to disappear, chasing one after the other with some orange juice. I wince as sharp twinges pierce at my jaw, as if to tell me I made the right choice. I devour the rest of the fresh liquid, huffing contentedly as the last of it slides down my throat, savoring its rich, citrus-sweet flavor.

Frost continues to watch my every motion, as if he's trying to gauge something, and I can't stop the shiver that creeps up my spine at the thought of what's going through his head. Deafening silence ensues once more, like a new, ongoing ritual between us, murking the already tense atmosphere a hundredfold, and I'm none the wiser to break it. As par the course, he resumes his role, sitting next to me quietly, still as a statue, saying absolutely nothing, but I can feel the heat of his eyes on me.

Before long, I find myself fidgeting, scraping at oatmeal streaks on the sides of the bowl in an attempt to postpone the inevitable as I adamantly avoid his gaze, afraid to end my meal and the temporary sense of security it provides.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and still he remains unnervingly quiet, even more calm and collected than usual, but my restlessness and anxiety, on the other hand, soon get the best of me.

My scalp buzzes as blood rushes to my head for no reason, and my nose tingles with adrenaline, propelling an onset of jitters that I can't control. I stand, unable to take the overbearing awkwardness any longer. I lift the tray with shaky hands, the faint sound of china and glass atop the metal clinking in tandem with my uncooperative fingers.

"W-which...which way is the kitchen?" I ask without looking at him, forcing myself to speak even though I sound appallingly hoarse.

I'm already shuffling away from my seat before I even get the question out, desperate to put some distance between us...

And then shit goes left.

Literally.

***

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