Chapter Four

The tang of iron had never been so strong. It overlapped the rust, the sour stink of sweat, the sharp sting of ocean. It was everywhere, a suffocating force wrapping itself around her until she was sure she’d smell like metal works forever.

The room itself was an iron cubby. No doubt a small storage area. One side was stocked with sacks of rice and wooden crates. The other had been hollowed out to make just enough room for her.

Nothing else had been offered.

No bed.

No blanket.

Not even a bucket to piss in.

Either that meant they didn’t intend to keep her there for very long, or they didn’t care what became of her. She wasn’t sure which bothered her more. Captors who cared little about their prisoners usually meant bad things for the prisoners. That was a known fact.

But it raised the question why they were doing this. What did they want and how was she part of that plan? She hadn’t seen anyone since they’d tossed her into the room and locked the door behind her, a door that only opened from the outside.

It was a cargo ship of some kind. Judging from the goods she was left with, she guessed dry goods, or maybe containers. Maybe there were other prisoners somewhere inside that monster. She didn’t believe for a minute that she was their first, or only kidnapping. No one just carried around a tank filled with sleeping gas, not unless they did that kind of thing regularly. She wouldn’t even know where to buy something like that, especially one so easily transportable. It would have had to have been small, something lightweight and compact, because she hadn’t felt it when he’d been knocking her out. Not to mention that torture dungeon. Clearly professionals. Question remained, what business were they in? Slavery? Black market origin exchange? Ransom? The latter she could handle. Her father would pay whatever they wanted for her return. There was no question about that.

Yet the thought of being sold for any reason terrified her. It twisted her insides with serrated claws, ripping tissues until the pain was unbearable. Realizing only one percent of the women taken were ever found didn’t help. It almost made her wish she hadn’t watched that documentary on human trafficking. But it did help that she knew—at least slightly—what she was up against. Being in the dark would have been infinitely worse.

With nothing to do, but wait, Cora ventured over to the neat pile of rice and surveyed the best way to pull one down without bringing the whole thing toppling on top of her. There seemed to be a strategic order to it with the larger bags piled on the bottom and the slightly smaller bags on top. Maybe she could drag the top ones down and reorganize it. Then she could use the big ones for a sleeping place and a smaller one for a pillow. She could probably even open one of the large ones and fashion it into a blanket. The rough fabric would most likely not be very comfortable, but it was better than being in a freezing cold box with nothing on, except a t-shirt.

Mind solidified on the plan, she reached for the highest sack, using the bottom bags as leverage to hoist herself up. Her fingers twisted into the cloth handle when the door swung open with a shrieking wail of rusted hinges. Cora jumped and nearly lost her footing. She stumbled down, barely catching herself on a crate.

The man in the doorway took up the entire opening with his enormous frame and even bigger build. Thick, bulging arms extended to the width, forcing him to turn ever so slightly in order to join her in the already tiny space. The thin material of his white t-shirt strained over the hard planes of his back as he bent forward and set a tray down on a crate. She hadn’t noticed it until it was there and the scent of hot gravy had chased away the stink of too many pennies.

“I’ll be back for the dishes,” he told her in a gruff grumble that vibrated across the expanse of his massive chest.

She said nothing, nor did he wait for her to. He turned and ambled back to the door. Cora caught a quick glimpse of another man sitting on a chair just outside before she was sealed in again.

It struck her as odd that they would post a guard outside a door that only opened from the outside. It made her wonder if they were keeping her in, or keeping someone else out. But she didn’t think too long on it. The aroma of an actual meal had begun to make her mouth water. It was unclear how many days it had been since she’d eaten, but she knew from the rumble of her stomach, that it had been a while.

The plate was a messy heap of mashed potatoes, soggy green beans, and a rubbery meat patty slathered in gravy. She’d seen a similar meal on an episode of Orange is the New Black, a TV drama about women in prison. Regardless, food was food, and she wasn’t about to get picky.

She ate it all, and stopped short of licking the plate clean. She could have gone for seconds, but doubted there would be any. For now, it was enough.

As promised, the man with his dark eyes and darker skin, returned for her dishes. He eyed the sparkly clean state of her plate and seemed on the verge of saying something, but he gathered up her tray instead and left without a word.

No sooner had the door shut, when it opened again. The newcomer wasn’t as giant as the first, but she judged from his impressive build that he was no stranger to a gym. His torso was an artwork of lean muscles and taut, tan skin that spoke of a European descent. That and the dark locks fastened back in a band. A few had escaped and coiled around his reasonably handsome face in glossy curls. His brown eyes bore into hers, scrutinizing, assessing in a way that made her think he was trying to read her mind.

“The Captain would like to see you in his quarters,” he said at last.

Cora, having a feeling she knew exactly who The Captain was, resisted with a defiant tilt of her chin. “I’m fine here. Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Cora narrowed her eyes. “It was, actually. You said he would like to see me. Well, I would not like to see him, so I refuse his request.”

There was a flicker of something in his dark gaze that vanished too fast for her to judge, but it wasn’t nearly as important as the gun he unholstered from the back of his waistband.

“How’s this? I’m no longer requesting.”

Cora stepped forward. “Well, it seems I’m left with no choice.”

“Presley,” he called over his shoulder.

The man outside her door stood and wandered over, the burlap bag in hand. Cora, feeling like she’d pushed her luck as far as she could with the man wielding the gun, didn’t protest when her head was covered. She stood perfectly still until her elbow was caught in a firm grip and she was forcibly marched forward.

The cold, metal floor continued for several steps before her toe bumped the bottom of a lip.

“Stairs,” her companion instructed, tugging her arm upward as if indicating she start up.

Gingerly, she placed one foot in front of the other until she was told landing. In that time, one door was opened to a crisper, cleaner scent of ocean air. The smell of metal lingered less.

Cora was dragged forward, straight. No more stairs, or turns. They stopped after ten steps. A door opened and she was shoved through.

“Sit.”

Her captor forced her into a chair and left her there with her head still covered. Cora wondered if she was allowed to take it off. But decided not seeing her captive’s face might be the thing that saved her. No one liked witnesses, especially witnesses who could clearly identify them. At this point, the most she could tell the police was that he was big.

In all aspects.

“Hands.”

She was given no warning when her hands were twisted behind her back and fastened by a long length of itchy rope. It was done quickly, but with an accuracy that left her fingers slightly numb and tingling along the tips.

“Don’t pull,” he told her, putting the finishing touches to his knot. “The rope will tighten the more you struggle.”

He must have been a boyscout in a past life, she mused with more than a mild case of resignation.

“I can pay you,” she blurted. “As much as you want, if you let me go.”

The man had the audacity to laugh at her request. The sound was close, suggesting he was kneeling behind her.

“Sorry, love, but you can’t buy me.”

She heard him climb to his feet with a pop of his knee and rustle of clothes. He was still chuckling as his footsteps moved away from her. A door closed with a resounding bang. Then there was silence, except for her own breathing.

“Don’t feel bad,” said the familiar voice of The Captain from just over her right shoulder. “That wouldn’t have worked even if he had accepted.”

Inwardly, Cora cursed herself for not realizing there was a good possibility she may not have been alone in the room when making her offer. Of course he refused her. His boss was right there.

“And why’s that?”

He moved forward, his strides slow. Intimidating. But it wasn’t just the steady clip of his approaching feet that jingled the bells between her ears. It was the growing heat moving with him, drifting and filling her space. It burned through her t-shirt to brush against skin, a taunting caress that terrorized her senses.

“Because we’re in the middle of the Atlantic. Even if you somehow managed to get off the ship, it would take days to find land, and only if you know what you’re doing and don’t get lost and eaten by sharks.”

That seemed like a good enough reason, she mused indignantly, twisting at her binds. But every time she tugged, the ropes seemed to get tighter around her wrists. They bit into flesh, embedding each second of her captivity into skin, and reminding her of her own powerlessness. But defeat wasn’t in her. She wasn’t ready to give up.

“Stop struggling.”

Shadows swayed across the light poking in through the loose threads in the burlap. She could make out nothing, except that—despite the jungle of smells, most of which were rancid—he smelled amazing.

“What is it you want, Mr. ...?”

His footsteps circled around her chair, never wavering. “Captain. There are no misters here.”

Cora hummed contemplatively. “How very 14^th century of you, Captain Jack Sparrow.”

There was a long, thin moment of silence where she felt a sliver of fear creep through her wondering if she’d gone too far. She seemed to keep forgetting these weren’t good men and she wasn’t in a safe place, and antagonizing a possible psychopath was probably not the best way to stay alive.

“It’s Crow, actually.” It must have been the process of hearing everything through an itchy sack, but she could have sworn there was actual amusement in his voice. “Captain James Crow.”

“Well, Captain James Crow, you clearly have no idea who I am or you wouldn’t be—”

Boards creaked, fabric rustled. The shadow drifted closer, expanding across all flickers of light and drenching her in absolute darkness ... and him.

“Oh, I know everything I need to know about you, Ms. Harris. Do you think your presence on my ship is an accident?”

Cora ceased her tugging. The ends of her fingers prickled with the loss of blood flow, but it was the least of her concerns.

“Have I caught your attention?”

The hood was ripped from her head. Static electricity lifted her hair with it and the ebony strands clung helplessly to her face and across her eyes, momentarily blinding her. Tender fingers brushed back the obstruction, clearing her vision to focus on her captor for the first time.

Run!

The warning flashed through her senses even as all rational thought slowed to a crawl and word process failed her. There was no other word for him, except dangerous. A modern-day pirate in cargo pants and a loose-fitting top. Maybe it was the hair, the reckless, uncut manner of it and the way it hung around his face in dark, rebellious waves. It was long enough to slip like silk through a woman’s anxious fingers while she gripped him to her in the throes of passion; she’d always been a sucker for men with grabbable locks.

But that wasn’t the cause of the little alarms buzzing at the back of her skull. It wasn’t even the raw, almost animalistic glint in his silver eyes or the way they seemed to burn into her with a possession that bordered on ravenous. It wasn’t even the fact that he hovered inches shy of a solid seven feet of pure, unadulterated muscle. It was his aura. It was the air around him, the dark waves of power that seemed to emanate with radioactive intensity. She’d known powerful men all her life, but none had ever elicited fear and lust simultaneously with just a glance.

He stood before her with only a patch of faded carpet between them. The very air itself seemed to move with him, swirling and shifting until there was nothing left for her to draw in. Its absence sent her heart into a frenzy, or maybe it was the inexplicable nearness of him, the heat that seemed to be coming off him in thick tendrils.

Christ. What was he? It sure as hell wasn’t human. She’d never met anyone who could wield so much power without uttering a word.

Cora found her voice, a weak, croaky thing she had to force out. “What do you want?”

His answer was to drag over a chair from the round table pushed up against one wall. It was placed directly in front of her and his enormous frame was folded into it. He clasped big hands together and hung them casually between his knees while he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his lean thighs.

“That depends.” Silver eyes bore mercilessly into hers. “What are you willing to offer?”

The implication hung between them, a swinging sword sharp enough to decapitate with a single blow. She could feel it drawing closer with every second that passed and he never blinked. The unwavering scrutiny carved an expert path down the center of her spine with a cold, metallic talon. She would have flinched if he wasn’t watching her so closely.

“I won’t negotiate with you,” she told him with all the evenness she could muster. “I assume that, since you’ve gone through the trouble of bringing me here, that you have an idea of what you want from me. I would appreciate you not playing games.”

A hard glint sparked in his eyes, igniting the already frigid glower. “How much do you think you’re worth, Ms. Harris?”

Cora struggled not to blink. “Excuse me?”

“In dollars,” he clarified. “And would you be worth more as a whole or in pieces?”

All notions of bravado evaporated with the impact of his question. It dissolved the rationality and calm she’d been trained from birth to wield with precision. Deep down, she knew her father and uncle would have been appalled by how easily she’d been dented. But strength was an option not offered when someone was threatening to chop her into pieces.

“My father will pay you whatever you want for my safe return,” she attempted to assure him in her best professional manner.

“That wasn’t my question, Ms. Harris.” The chair groaned as he pushed to his feet. He towered over her, forcing her neck back as he peered down on her. “What are you worth?”

“Um...” Her thoughts scattered with his first step around her. It vanished entirely when he circled right out of sight behind her. “I don’t...”

Something shrieked, the distinct ring of metal being dragged across stone. Its piercing sound lanced down her spine in a razor-sharp hiss that sent a violent chill through her. Dread tangled with the icy ropes of fear already tightening around her chest and she had to grit her teeth to keep from being sick.

“Let me make this easier for you.” The clip of approaching feet drew closer, each thump mirroring the erratic leap of her heart. “What amount should I ask your father for your safe return?”

“I can’t...” The words turned to paste at the back of her esophagus.

The footsteps stopped. The room plunged into its original silence, the one that had fooled her into believing she was alone. But she knew he was still there, just behind her, close enough that the heat of him burned her back.

“I think,” he began in that lazy drawl of his. “It’s a risk to let the man holding your life in his hands decide the worth of your next breath, don’t you?”

Cora closed her eyes, needing the gray blotches to stop their insistent creeping across her vision. Instead, all it did was bring focus to the irate horde of bees taking residence between her ears and the inexplicable thickness solidifying the oxygen around her. Each inhale felt waxy and tinged with the stench of her own terror she was failing miserably to conceal. It took all her willpower not to fall apart.

“Let me call my dad,” she choked out. “I know that if I talk to him—”

“Or I could just send him your finger,” he mused lazily. “Or your tongue.”

Something wove into her hair, twisting a strand and tugging at her scalp. Cora’s eyes flew open, but not before she heard the unmistakable snip and then the release of pressure as a sheered lock dropped back with the others. Her cry of outrage and horror went ignored as her captor rounded back to his original seat, a long coil of hair pinched between his fingers. In the other hand, a pair of silver scissors glinted.

“You ... you cut my hair?” she exclaimed, unable to believe her eyes.

A dark brow lifted on that perfectly sculpted face. “Would you have preferred a finger?”

She didn’t prefer either, but between the two options, hair wasn’t the worst thing he could have cut. Not that it made it any easier to swallow.

“It would have been easier if you’d let me call!” she gasped.

He considered that a moment, idly spooling the strand between his fingers. “Well, we can consider that for next time.”

Without waiting, he left her to go somewhere out of sight behind her again. She heard a drawer open and items rattle around inside. When he returned a few minutes later, the hair was gone. As were the scissors. He regained his seat and met her furious glower with a neutral one of his own.

Neither of them said a word for what felt like hours. Their silence strained with the game he seemed to be playing with her. It was a game of wills, a game of strength. He was toying with her. The very idea infuriated her, which seemed to amuse him; there was a curl to his lips that was remarkably like the Cheshire Cat’s.

“Did you bring me all the way here to simply stare at me?” she demanded.

“I don’t think you’re prepared for my original idea,” he replied evenly.

“Which was what, exactly?” she challenged. “Butcher my hair?”

The dark twist of his lips made her regret her cheek. But she stayed firmly behind them.

“Ever been fucked by a pirate before, Ms. Harris?”

Cora gulped. She was sure he heard it. If he did, he never let on. Instead, he paralyzed her beneath those unwavering eyes, daring her to answer.

“My father will kill you if you touch me.” The warning may have sounded more convincing if it hadn’t trembled on her lips.

“Oh sweetheart,” his head cocked to one side the way one might after witnessing an adorable trick. “When I’m ready to have you, you’ll be begging me for it.”

“You’re clearly insane,” she muttered. “Why would I ever want you?”

The lie was interrupted by the door opening behind him. The man who had dragged her into the room stepped over the threshold. His dark eyes went from Cora’s ashen expression to his captain with a mere tilt of his brow.

“I beg your pardon, Captain, you’re needed momentarily on the bridge.”

With that, he and his comrade left the room and shut the door behind them. It stayed closed. She wasn’t sure for how long, but a violent pain spiked down the path of her spine when she was jolted awake by the disturbance of hinges being opened. The cruelty of being abandoned in a stiff chair, arms bound, hurt every bone and muscle in her body. But it was nothing compared to the ache in her neck when she tried to lift it and squint at the pair.

“Bedtime.” James stalked in, one hand tugging at the zipper on his coat. “Nicholas will take you back to your room.”

Nicholas moved behind her with a switch blade in hand. It snapped open with a flick of his wrist. The blade glinted in the light before it disappeared with its owner behind her.

“Post Presley outside her door,” James instructed as he ripped off his coat and pitched it aside. His top followed. “I want no one in or out without my direct orders.”

He stopped in front of her, beautifully bare chested and built like something straight out of a dark, dirty fantasy. All those hard muscles forming hills and valleys along the broad planes of his shoulders and stretching over the glorious expanse of his wide chest made her almost forget why she was so angry.

Nicholas cut through her binding. The bits of rope hit the floor, freeing her. Blood rushed through the numb limb, aggravating every movement. She wanted to weep.

Her captor never noticed. With nonchalant grace, he snapped open the top button on his cargos, and it took all she had not to watch with riveted fascination as the zipper followed.

“Let August know there’ll be one more for meals,” he went on telling the other man as if she weren’t in the room, unconcerned that his waistband was slowly sliding down the lean curves of his hips. He folded his arms. “No desserts.”

Cora’s brain was malfunctioning. Thoughts and words were streaming, but with a hazy blur that seemed to take the importance of whatever she’d been thinking. Beneath her top, her nipples had gone rigid. They strained against the t-shirt containing them with a none too subtle ache she hadn’t felt in damn long time. It mirrored the pang taking residence between her thighs where the boy shorts where pulled a little too tight against her mound. The seam had slipped between her lips, and if she shifted even slightly...

Five blunt fingers closed in the soft muscle of her forearm and she was jostled into motion. But movement was a luxury Cora couldn’t afford when both legs were sleeping and the sight of her captor’s rugged body had awakened every female instinct in her.

The latter was mortifying.

It was insane.

She couldn’t even humor the notion without severely hating herself.

“Let go of me!” she snapped with more impudence than was probably wise.

A twin set of hands dove into her hair and she was viciously yanked out of her chair. The assault drove her into her enemy’s arms, into the taut wall of his chest. She forgot all about the needles piercing her feet. What was worse, she gasped upon impact, a low, breathy sound that did not belong in that situation.

The hand in her hair tightened, eliciting a shockwave of delicious shivers cascading down her spine. The electrical currents intensified every sensation, making her hyper aware of every inch of him melding with hers.

Gray eyes bore into hers with a knowing glint that made her want to die on the spot.

“Give us a moment, Nicholas.”

Don’t go. Don’t leave me with him, she wanted to beg. But the other man had already exited the room, sealing the door securely behind him.

“We need to work on that mouth of yours, sweetheart. I won’t have you disobeying me in front of my men.” One hand slipped from her hair and fastened around her middle, pinning her completely to him. “The next time it happens, I will put you over my knee, wherever we may be, and I will remind you who’s in charge.”

The hand at her waist slid down and tucked beneath the hem of her top. The hot, callused palm splayed over the globe of her ass cheek. The burn of his touch hissed against her skin with the accuracy of a smack.

Cora choked on her sharp inhale. “Don’t...”

“Do we understand each other, Cora?” His fingertips danced over the soft incline where the curve of her backside met the back of her thigh, and where the seam of her underwear started. “Will you behave?”

One finger slipped beneath the elastic.

Just one.

But the sensation rocketed straight to her core. She felt the invasion with the same severity as if he’d plunged that finger inside her.

Shit.

“Cora.” His tone was as slow and taunting as the run of that finger following the band forward up her hip bone and down.

Down.

“Yes...” although she couldn’t fathom for the life of her what she was agreeing to.

His eyes darkened with the feral hardness setting his features. “That’s a good girl.”

The hand vanished. Its absence sent a jolt through her, reawakening the senses he’d stolen.

She yanked out of his arms and found herself splayed on the floor at his feet.

The impact never even registered.

“Don’t touch me,” she panted. “I ... I won’t be manhandled.”

He stood over her, a hulking figure dominating the very air around him. His hands hung loosely at his sides, hands that had, moments ago, been holding her up. But it was the thick, fat head of his cock that captured her attention. It peeked out from the wide V where his pants had slipped down the rock-hard squares stamped into his abdomen. Its rigid length mocked her. Not that he seemed to notice when bent at the knees to crouch in front of her.

“When I manhandle you, you will know it,” he drawled. “That was a warning, your first and your last. I don’t like repeating myself.”

Just like that, he pushed back up onto his feet and moved around her. His fist slammed into the metal twice, and the door immediately swung open. Nicholas stepped into the room.

“Ms. Harris is ready to be returned to her quarters.”

Cora shoved up on her own accords before the hand reaching for her could make contact. That didn’t seem to stop the man, however. He grabbed her arm anyway.

“I ... I need the bathroom.”

Neither man moved for a full second, as if her request was somehow foreign to them. Nicholas’s brown eyes pivoted away from her to his boss with a mixture of surprise and confusion. It was clear they either didn’t have very many women on board, or they had somehow mastered the ability not to pee.

James nodded at the other man, giving him the go-ahead without saying a word. Cora took that time to survey her surroundings. It was clearly a bedroom, possibly his with a cot pushed up beneath the only window in the place and an open chest of clothes at the foot. The only other objects in the room were the two chairs and a desk. Its sparseness made her wonder if he genuinely didn’t have much, or if he was the sort of man who didn’t need much. Either way, there weren’t many weapon choices. Her only other option was the open door behind her.

But the moment the idea entered her head, it was immediately reminded that they were still in the middle of the Atlantic. The sobering thought was followed promptly by the idea to wait until they’d hit land. Escape would be a much more tangible prospect then. In the meantime, she would just have to play nice and pray that was the last time she ever visited the Captain’s quarters.

“Come on.” Nicholas bent down and snatched up the burlap sack James had taken off her head and tossed aside. He shook it out and held it open. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t worry about that.” James moved to the desk and the small mountain of papers. “What’s she going to do? Memorize the horizon in the dark?”

Nicholas seemed to realize that as well when he bunched the thing up in one hand and motioned her out with the other.

It became painfully evident she wasn’t dressed for a trip across the ocean the moment she left the room. Everything was freezing cold beneath her bare feet once she stepped off the carpet. The chill burned at a temperature that hadn’t been that drastic when she’d originally been brought out. It seemed to have gone down with the nightfall. Each step was the equivalent of a treading on a sheet of ice. The corridors were worse. The Captain’s quarters must have been heated because there was no missing the sudden and drastic change. She couldn’t feel her legs from the knees down.

“Here,” Nicholas said, pushing open the door to a room where even the toilet was metal.

“I don’t think I can sit on that,” she hissed through chattering teeth.

“Put toilet paper down,” her companion suggested.

If only that were the only problem. Truth was, she wasn’t sure she could bend her knees without snapping them in half. Nevertheless, she braved the journey in and let him seal the door behind her. She padded to the seat and peered down into the surprisingly clean hole.

There was no helping it. It was either brave her chances or soil herself. The latter was a satisfaction she would not give their dear Captain.

She did her business, butt hovering almost a foot off the seat. She washed her hands and studied her reflection in the scuffed mirror hanging above the sink.

Her hair was in chaos. Thick tendrils hung in matted knots around her face and down her shoulders. The dark strands, and the dull lighting, casted a waxy, yellow tinge to her pale complexion. There was a bruise around her lips in a perfect circle that she guessed had come from the oxygen mask. She rubbed at it, not sure why, but it didn’t wipe away.

Dejected, and willing herself not to succumb to the thick wedge of emotions threatening to overcome her, Cora ran a hurried hand through her hair, and opened the door.

Nicholas was waiting for her just outside. He turned his head when she stepped out and he took her in with those heavily shrouded eyes. Neither said a word, but he motioned her to follow with the jerk of his head.

He took her back to the room with the crates and bags of rice. Nicholas opened the door with a jerk and nudged her inside.

The first thing she noticed was the cot with its mattress and pile of blankets, and a neat bundle of folded clothes. Then the absence of all the rice. Even the crates had been rearranged further up against the wall, leaving a decent amount of room for a single person. The reordering accounted for the time James had left her tied to the chair in his room. But the act of decency was overshadowed by the fact that he’d left her tied to a chair. Oh, and the fact that he’d kidnapped her. Regardless, the gesture was surprising.

“Someone will be outside if you need anything,” Nicholas told her. “Just bang on the door.”

Cora turned just as he was leaving the room and their eyes locked. “Thank you.”

He paused with one hand on the door and gave a barely conspicuous nod. Then he was gone and Cora lunged for the material laid out for her.

There was a pair of black sweats that needed to be rolled several times at the ankles, a shirt with sleeves that went over her hands and a hoodie that she zipped up to her chin. There were no shoes, not that she expected there to be on a ship filled with men, but there was a pair of socks that she pulled on over her numb toes.

Properly bundled, Cora climbed beneath the warm sheets and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

It wasn’t until she was beginning to drift off that it hit her—the smell. The familiar scent of spices coming off the clothes.

His scent.

They were his clothes.

She was wearing his things.

The thought made her want to take them back off, but common sense prevailed.

Instead, she lay in the musty cubical and pretended not to notice.