Page 19

CHAPTER 19

T he water had been warm .

That was the first surprise.

Not scalding. Not freezing. Just... pleasant . The kind of warmth that soaked into her skin, melted her tension for a moment, and made her forget where she was. Made her almost feel human again.

And there were scents. Not harsh chemical stinks or antiseptic sting, but soft, sweet, oddly familiar notes—something like vanilla and citrus, like the boutique shampoo she'd once splurged on during a particularly bad week. Liquids had dispensed themselves into her hands—some kind of soap, rich and foaming—before being rinsed away in another cascade of heat.

She’d washed herself.

Under his gaze.

She’d tried to pretend he wasn’t there. Closed her eyes. Focused on the sensation of the water, the scent, the slippery glide of clean against her skin. She imagined her apartment back in Cronulla. Her little blue-tiled bathroom. Her shampoo caddy rusting in the corner. The window cracked open to let the salt air in.

For a heartbeat, for the space of one breath, it had worked.

She wasn’t here. She wasn’t naked and collared on a spaceship in some distant, impossible part of the galaxy. She was home .

And then the water stopped.

And the moment shattered.

A rush of warm air struck her from all sides—some kind of drying system. Efficient. Thorough. It left her skin tingling, her hair already dry and faintly scented like warmth and spice. Her body felt clean, weightless, a little too light.

She opened her eyes.

He was still there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Still clad in that same unrelenting black armor, still faceless, still him . And now, in his hands—something new.

A garment.

Blue.

Cobalt, almost. Rich and deep, a few shades darker than her eyes. Her favorite color.

Her heart skipped.

Coincidence. It had to be.

Her mouth tightened. He couldn’t possibly know that . He couldn’t. There was no way he could read her mind. Right?

She shivered.

No. He was just playing another game. That was what this was. Another careful move in his quiet little war. A psychological maneuver. Every gesture was a way to steer her where he wanted her.

He lifted the garment slightly in his hands.

A motion.

Come.

She hesitated, jaw clenching, but... what choice did she have?

She was naked . And he knew it grated on her. Knew it pierced deeper than any weapon could. That bastard. He used her own modesty, her humanity, against her.

Sylvia forced herself forward, one step at a time, each footfall like a surrender.

He didn’t touch her immediately.

He waited until she was close. Then, he moved with the same slow precision she was beginning to recognize as his default. Deliberate. Exact. He draped the garment over her shoulders—not pulling, not forcing. Just... dressing her. As if she were a doll.

It wasn’t just a wrap.

It was a dress .

The fabric—or whatever it was—settled against her body like liquid, then molded. It hugged her, smoothing over her arms, sliding down her torso, curving over her hips like it had been tailored just for her.

She gasped softly as it sealed at her back—not with zippers or buttons, but something seamless, the material drawing itself closed with a quiet hum. She didn’t understand the mechanism. It didn’t matter.

It was on.

Thick, but soft. Flexible. Somewhere between leather and silk, but neither. It moved with her, like a second skin. A beautiful second skin.

Her hands slid instinctively over the fabric. It was strange... but comfortable. It clung to her breasts, her waist, her thighs—but not indecently. Not like the Dukkar’s outfit. It was, in its way, elegant .

She was still barefoot. The collar still hugged her throat.

And now this.

This dress.

She hated that it looked good on her.

Hated that it made her feel warm, and safe , even for a moment.

Because it wasn’t a gift.

It was a leash.

A sign of ownership.

She belonged to him.

And he was dressing her accordingly.

Sylvia swallowed hard, forcing the lump down.

Then he turned, as if nothing had passed between them at all.

And she followed.

Clean. Clothed. And walking once more at the heels of the one who had taken everything from her.