Page 10 of Don’t Hate Me (Secrets of Ravens Hollow #2)

“No. Stay the fuck away from me,” I shout back.

Unzipping my dress quickly, I struggle to balance on one leg as I strip it off over my head.

I remove my underwear and hobble over to the bath, carefully balancing with my arms on the tub as I clamber in.

Water splooshes over the side, but I couldn’t give a fuck, that’s on him for forcing me to take a bath.

The water temperature is perfect, but it stings my bruising and cut-up knees like a bitch.

I breathe through the pain, knowing it will ease off soon.

When the stinging subsides, I lay my head back and shut my eyes, feeling the room suddenly spinning around me.

I’m so overwhelmed and out of my depth, I have no idea what to do.

I need my pills, something to calm the spiraling thoughts.

I’m losing control more than ever before, and I can’t.

Right now, I need to stay strong, need to outwit him in any way I can.

Why the hell did I run? Now I’m fucking hurt as well as locked up. But part of me feels like he almost wanted me to. Like he was baiting me. And after the set-up earlier, I’m going to assume he was. Damn me for being too stubborn to see the danger right in front of me.

“Do you need help to get out?” I hear Orlando’s faint voice calling me from his room.

I let my eyes flutter open, the blurry shapes of the room slowly resolving into familiar furniture and objects.

A shower, a vanity, an open doorway that he’s on the other side of.

It’s clearer now that the dizziness is easing.

“Fuck off, Orlando,” I throw back angrily.

Fucking creeper, hasn’t he seen enough? He was probably hoping I would pass out again tonight so he could manhandle me into my night dress again.

My attention flicks around the room, searching for a towel to cover myself up with.

A fluffy white towel hangs just to my right.

With all the effort I can muster, I hold on to the side of the bath and try to force my body upright so I can stand, but the searing pain shooting through my ankle won’t bear weight, and I collapse back into the bath, a painful cry escaping my lips.

“I’m coming in,” he insists.

“Don’t you dare,” I cry. But it’s too late, the asshole is already in the room, stalking toward me like some kind of cape-wearing hero.

He heads straight for the towel rack, collects one up, and holds it out, taking my hand. “If it helps, I won’t look,” he tells me.

“Fuck off, Orlando, you just admitted to watching me with the boys, and I know it was you who changed me last night. You have already seen it all without my permission, don’t try and be a gentleman now.”

His eyes meet mine, a kindness in them I don’t understand. “I was trying to make you feel safe.”

“I’m not safe with you, stop trying. I wouldn’t have hurt myself if it wasn’t for you,” I lash out at him.

“You hurt yourself running away. That’s on you, not me.” He holds his hand out to me again, and this time I take it, reluctantly but knowing I have no other choice if I don’t want to spend the rest of the night in the bath.

I’m already wrinkling to a prune in here. I need to get out and go to bed, shut this whole fucked-up situation out.

He helps me balance using his arms for support, then when I’m out, he wraps the towel around me. His eyes stay on mine the entire time, before he scoops me up and carries me back into my room, placing me delicately on the bed in front of him.

I stare back up at him, not able to miss the hunger in his eyes. Fuck. There is something in it that gets to me in a way it definitely shouldn’t. Sloane, you hate this man with everything in your being , I remind myself, because the heat from the bath must have gotten to my head or something.

He moves into the walk-in closet and comes back with a pale blue silk nightdress much like the one I woke up in this morning.

Has he had my stuff moved down here already or was it just what I’m sleeping in?

Handing it to me, he moves back into the bathroom, and I hear the water being let out.

It’s strangely unnerving that this cruel, ruthless man is taking care of me.

So much so, I have no idea what to do about it.

While he is busy, I dry myself as best I can, then slip the night dress over my head, covering myself up.

He returns with a small red bag with a cross on the side; it must be a first-aid kit. “Lie back and I’ll fix you up as best I can,” he tells me, looking me over with concern I don’t like the look of.

With a heavy sigh, I shuffle up the bed, till my head hits the soft pillow.

He sits on the end of the bed and takes my foot in his hands, studying my injury. It’s already swelling up and turning black and blue. “You did a good job of it. I reckon it’s probably just a sprain, but I can get a doctor out to the house tomorrow to make sure it’s nothing worse.”

“You would risk bringing a doctor out here?” I ask, confused and surprised.

He raises a brow. “It’s not a risk, the man’s on my payroll.”

I nibble my bottom lip, wondering why he’s telling me that information. “Okay, if you can,” I reply, worry already sitting in the pit of my stomach not knowing how bad it is.

From the first-aid kit he takes a compression bandage and rolls it around my ankle carefully like he knows what he’s doing.

I try to pull away a few times when it hurts, but he holds me firmly until he’s done.

Then he assesses my knees, dabbing on some ointment that stings like crazy, before he applies some bandages.

“There, that should get you through the night. Do you need something for the pain?”

Something for the pain, fuck yes. I offer a half smile, desperate for anything he’s willing to give me. “If you have some Advil, and maybe a whiskey or some sleeping pills?” I ask, knowing I’m pushing my luck, but fuck, I would take anything at this point to block all this shit out.

His brow rises. “I should be punishing you for running from me, not rewarding you with your favorite drink.”

“After the shit you laid on me tonight about Syd, don’t you think I deserve an escape, just a little one?

” I flutter my eyelashes, hoping to appear endearing, feeling a sense of desperation as I almost plead for any assistance he’s willing to give.

I hate myself for it, but what other choice do I have? My life is in his hands right now.

With a huff and something mumbled under his breath I don’t make out, he stands and leaves the room, leaving me alone and waiting, hoping that when he returns, he will have the goods for me.

I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind, acting like someone I don’t even recognize.

The strong badass chick is nowhere to be seen.

I prop myself up in bed, stacking up a couple of pillows behind me so I can inspect his handiwork on my ankle.

It’s better than anything I could have done and already feels much more supported.

Orlando comes back into view with a small tumbler of whiskey, two little pills, and a bag of ice. “Advil,” he says, handing me the pills and the whiskey. He moves down to my ankle and places the bag of ice over it, making me wince as the cold hits my bruising.

I nod, offering him a half smile, slightly surprised he got me what I wanted.

He must feel guilty for how badly I’m injured, even if he’s not willing to say as much.

Taking the pills from him, I swallow them down with a chaser of the whiskey.

“Thank you,” I say when I realize he’s still watching me.

He took care of me tonight. He was kind of sweet, if I don’t count him admitting to watching me with his brother, when he could have been furious with me.

Maybe I do have him all wrong. “Orlando, when you call the doctor, will you get my pills for me?” I ask, not far off begging him at this point.

He gives me a slow once-over, a slight frown furrowing his brow, and I can tell he’s not so sure it’s a good idea.

“Please, Orlando, I need them.”

His lips form a thin line. “I’ll see what I can do,” he grumbles, unimpressed, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m reduced to begging him for what I need or if he’s just not happy about me being on them in the first place.

But “I will see what I can do” is better than a “hell no,” so I sip my whiskey, praying that tomorrow will bring more relief than today.

He watches me, waiting as if he has more to say, then he turns and moves toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he mutters before leaving me alone in his bed.

This time, though, he doesn’t lock the door; he leaves it wide open.

I thought after me running for it he would have locked me up tight, but maybe he knows I now know there is no escape off this island, so what’s the point in trying.

I’m sure he will be back soon to sleep next to me as well.

Or is this another test and he’s just waiting to see what I will do next.