Page 28 of Glass

Slowly, I peel off the dress they gave me at the prison. My underwear follows, and I carefully place the only thing I’ve been able to keep with me on the counter after fishing it out of my bra.

The tears well up as I step into the hot water, tip my face up into the hot spray.

I can’t stop them.

They mix with the water, sliding down my face as I frantically scrub. Trails of brown streak the white tiles, washing away down the plughole as I work layer after layer of dirt from my skin, careful to avoid the stinging welts on my wrists and ankles.

I never thought I’d be so grateful for a fuckingshower.

They know exactly what they’re doing, the Tate brothers.

Give with one hand. Take away with another. Leaving me on edge, off balance.

Slowly, I sink down onto the floor. The water streams over my matted hair as I wrap my arms around my knees and bury my face in them, digging my nails into the skin to try and hold thesobs back. It doesn’t work, not in the least, but it makes me feel better anyway. Not quite so exposed.

I stay there until the water runs clear. Until I feel like I can breathe again.

My resolve is tested when I try to wash my hair. Kit’s mint scented shampoo doesn’t help me get the knots out, even as I try and work around them. I wash it through three times before I finally give up, flicking off the water and wrapping the towel around myself as I step out onto the mat.

At least I’m clean.

I glance around the bathroom, searching for a toothbrush. There’s one in a cup, which must be Kits. The cupboards are nearly empty when I search them, just a few products and some painkillers. I take two, swallowing them down with water from the faucet to try to chase away the lingering aches in my head and body.

I feel almost human again.

Another glance at the toothbrush, and I bite my lip. Desperation wins out.

Sorry, Kit.

It feels intimate, to use his toothbrush. When I glance in the mirror, my cheeks are bright and flushed, even as my hair hangs in tangled rope around my face.

There’s a knock in the door, and I whirl as it opens a crack. A hand appears. “Here.”

Slowly, I reach out and close my fingers around the bundle. “Thanks.”

I shake it open, and stare at the black underwear. My cheeks heat.

Maybe Ellen could lend me something. But we’re very different sizes. Slowly, I drag the underwear on, slipping on my dirty bra with a cringe. At least I can actually wash it now. Now I can take it off, thanks to Kit removing the chains.

The white shirt drowns me, falling past my knees. I roll the sleeves up before I open the bathroom door, clearing my throat. “Kit?”

He’s waiting, stood in the middle of the bedroom with his arms crossed. Violet eyes flick over me, taking in the shirt. My toes curl as his gaze drops down to my legs, and he swallows.

“Sit on the bed for me.” His voice is husky, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s holding up.

Oh. I flush, crossing to the bed and perching on the end.

Kit unscrews the tube, his hand circling my wrist carefully as he smooths the cool cream into the marks left by the chains.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Back to Parrish.”

“Let it go, Kit,” I say. My voice is tired. Matching the rest of me. “It really doesn’t matter.”

His jaw tightens as I glance up at him. He finishes with my wrists, and I take a breath as he drops to the floor, kneeling to look at my ankles. Kit looks up at me. “Maybe it matters to me.”

“Don’t like other people touching your toys?” My voice is acerbic, and he slows in his movements.

“Have I ever given you that impression?” he asks quietly. “That you were a toy?”