The next day, my head is still spinning over what happened last night. I’ve come to two conclusions. The first is that I have no real idea whether Father Derrik or Dryas is normal when it comes to… sex. The second is that I need to stop thinking about it — remembering the sights, the sounds, the feel of Dryas’s lips against mine.

After he left, I prayed last night. For an hour, I knelt by my bed, hands folded, and tried to talk to God. I was as penitent as I know how to be, without anything to flail myself with.

That’s always been my problem, though. No matter what I say to God, no matter how I try to prostrate myself before Him, he’s silent.

He’s always silent.

Now, the image of Dryas splayed out on my bed, showing his toned stomach as he strokes himself… it stays with me. It’s burned into my brain, etched there forever. No matter how I try to think of anything else, I keep coming back to that image.

That milky white pearl, dripping from his cock.

I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I know that. But that’s how clever the devil is, putting the thoughts and the images inside my head. He tempts me, even as I know he will only punish me.

He wants me to burn with him in Hell. Keeping that in the forefront of my mind, I resist the devil’s will.

In fact, that is what I’m trying to push out of my mind when Dryas finds me. He narrows his gaze on me as I sit on my bed.

“You need to wash yourself,” he says, making me cringe inwardly. Turning red, I don’t know how to defend myself.

We’d only bathed once per week when I was at the convent. It’s only been three days since I bathed when I got here. I reach up to my hair, feeling it as if it will give me answers.

He looks bored, motioning me to come with him. “Come on, don’t make me wait.”

I hurry to follow him, my smaller size meaning I have to work to keep up with his giant strides. He leads me to the same bathroom just down the hall from my bedroom, the one that I used last time. I expect him to stop at the doorway, to let me go in alone.

But I’m wrong.

Dryas goes in, expecting me to follow. And like the fool that I am, I do. As soon as I step in the bathroom, he closes the door. I frown at him as he goes over to the bathtub and flicks the taps on.

He sits on the side of the bathtub, watching as the steaming water fills it. He doesn’t say anything, so I just stand by the door, fidgeting with my kimono nervously.

When the tub is three-quarters full, he glances at me. That chartreuse gaze, so like a cat’s. It makes me feel completely naked.

I wonder if he knows that and uses his gaze like a weapon.

“Get undressed,” he orders, reaching his fingers down to test the water’s temperature.

I glance around for a towel, moving to grab one from the towel stand. Halfway there, he rebukes me so loudly that I freeze in place.

“What are you doing?” he demands to know. “I just said you should get undressed. Do you want me to strip your clothes from your body again?”

He looks thunderous. My heart pounds in my ears. I glance at him, shaking my head.

“No,” I say meekly. “I’ll… I’ll do it.”

I’m blushing, shaking at the realization that I’m going to be naked before his gaze once again. Raising my trembling hands to the sash of my kimono, I slip it off. It falls to my feet.

Already, I can feel his gaze on my breasts. Casting my eyes downward, I hook my thumbs in the waist of my panties, leaning forward to take them down my legs. When I stand up again, I am more ashamed than I have ever been.

Because I don’t mind his harsh gaze on my bare flesh. Yesterday, he exposed himself and I watched fascinated. I imagine that he feels the same way when he looks at me.

I know that it’s wrong. Trembling, eyes cast down at my feet, I can’t meet his eyes. But I can’t control what is going on inside, not really.

I can’t help the maelstrom of feelings and sensations that all surround me, pummeling me with full force. The coolness of the air against my skin. The heat of the blush in my cheeks and chest. The sense that I am a moment away from looking up at him and committing a sinful act.

Out of… what, curiosity? Out of a desire to know what his cock would feel like in my hand?

I walk on the razor’s edge just now, trembling with pent-up energy. He turns off the taps, testing the water again. Then he beckons to me. “Come here, little bird. Get in the bathtub.”

I stare at the bathtub, full of anxiety. He expects me to bathe in front of him? Being naked is hard enough. Surely, he can ask no more of me, not now.

It feels like there is no air to breathe in this steam-filled room. When he beckons again, I swallow and look at the bathroom tiles beneath my feet. Slowly but surely, I pad across the solemn white squares and reach the bathtub.

Dryas holds out a hand to me. I look up at him, getting trapped in his jungle cat’s gaze. My fingers tremble as I reach out and put my hand in his. I use him as balance while I raise one foot, then plunge it into the near-scalding water. I blanch as I raise my other foot and put it in.

Dryas never breaks his stare, gazing in my eyes and nowhere else. Somehow, that makes me glad.

Then I sink down into the piping hot water, my brow wrinkling. The bathtub is overlarge and I’m small, so there is plenty of room in the water. Sitting up straight, I pull my knees close to my chest.

I can sort of pretend that I’m not completely naked, sitting like this. Of course, then Dryas turns his body toward me and looks down at me. I blush vermillion red, as though I’ve just been dashed across both cheeks with a painter’s brush.

His lips curl up. Eyes dancing, he looks at me, curled up as I am. His hand drops down to touch the water several inches from my left shin. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

I feel my face heat further. Dropping my gaze, I don’t respond. I wouldn’t know how even if I wanted to.

He stands up. For a moment I go on alert, expecting him to shed his own clothes and demand that I service him. But he just goes to the cabinets below the sink and returns with several bottles. Shampoo, conditioner, and an unquantifiable glass bottle of something pink.

Dryas sets them on the side of the bathtub, just out of my reach. “Relax a little, matia mou. You do not need to sit so stiffly, like a soldier preparing for war. There is no one here but you and me.”

I look up at him fearfully, because that is exactly what I’m afraid of. That he will coax me into relaxing, and then…

Then what?

Peer into my soul? Know that I have been thinking of him… touching himself… nearly nonstop?

Or worse, pressing his lips against mine again? His big hands touching my body, finding me damp between my legs once more?

Yes, that is what I am afraid of. If he knew either of those things, I know somehow that he would be my downfall.

I don’t say that, though. Instead, I clamp my lips shut, letting him push me backward with strong hands. He presses on my knees too, so that I’m lying back. My hands come up, clawlike, grabbing hold of the sides of the bathtub.

He sits on the side of the bathtub once more, his eyes raking up and down my naked flesh. Narrowing his gaze, he sighs.

“Relax,” he insists again. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I close my eyes, shutting those words out. Father Derrik said exactly the same thing until he changed his mind. It is my experience that men lie when what’s between their legs is involved.

Dryas uncorks the glass bottle with a soft pop. I open my eyes to see him holding the bottle out. “This is a shower gel. Here, give me your hand…”

I raise my hand, palm flat, and he pours a bit of the pink goop into it. It smells heavenly, like a field of fresh strawberries. Looking back up to him for instructions, I hold the small pool in my palm.

“Go on,” he says, giving me an encouraging nod. “Use it the way you would use soap.”

I’m not that oblivious. I know what shower gel is, I just don’t want to do anything wrong. Slowly bringing my free hand up out of the water, I spread a little gel on my free hand. Then I begin to soap my arms.

His gaze is heavy on me as I get some of the suds on my back on well. I see him pour a little of the shower gel on his own hands, then reposition himself on the side of the bathtub so that he’s sitting behind me.

Although I’m expecting it, I nearly come up out of the water when his hot hands land on my shoulders. He massages my shoulders deftly, but they are ridiculously bunched up. His fingers linger over the scars from my flagellation, but just as quickly he dismisses them, moving on.

He leans in closely, so that he is right behind my ear. I’m ready for him to say something, anticipating it. To whisper in my ear, like the devil himself would do. I lean forward a little, readying myself.

But he is silent. Dryas merely takes advantage of my position and rubs lower. He hits a knot in my shoulder, taking care to rub it hard. My eyes close involuntarily and I moan out a breath.

It hurts and feels good at the same time, in equal parts. He keeps going, rubbing several knots in my upper back. I let my head fall forward, my anxiety momentarily forgotten.

No one has ever massaged me before, not like this. He never strays toward my breasts or what’s between my legs, which is in itself surprising. By the time he’s finished, I’m like putty in his hands. Then he washes his hands off, reaching for the shampoo bottle.

“Lie back. Get your hair wet,” he says mildly. “Let me massage your scalp.”

And because I am a weak soul, I do. I dunk my head back, getting the back of my head wet. Dryas puts his shampoo-laden hands in my hair. I’m conscious of the fact that they’re big, large enough that he could crush my head with ease.

He just massages my head, starting at the base of my neck. I let out a sigh as his long fingers do their work. I didn’t think I even held tension in my head, but his clever fingers find knots and sore spots anyway.

For a few minutes, I forget that I am naked as sin. I forget that this man kidnapped me, that he still holds my sister. Forget about Father Derrik and Prince Henrick, about the Church, about almost everything.

He instructs me to rinse out the shampoo and then goes back in with conditioner. I’m not totally in the dark. I know what conditioner is, but I’ve spent so many years washing my hair with bar soap that conditioner is a revelation to my red locks. Not to mention the fact that a large handsome man is rubbing it into my scalp.

Try as I might not to look at Dryas or think about him, he is everywhere when I close my eyes. He’s touching me. My nose is full of his clean scent, mixed with the smell of strawberries.

I’m weak right now, morally and physically. When he has me rinse out my hair and stand up, so he can wrap me in a towel, I think that he could easily take me to his bedroom.

He could lay me down, have his way with me. I wouldn’t protest much. All the fight in me is gone, washed away like the shampoo.

But Dryas doesn’t do that. He guides me to my bedroom and leaves me sitting on the bed, staring at the place where he was only moments before. I should be trying to figure out what his endgame is, but…

My eyes are just so heavy. I let them close, lying down for a little bit.

And then I know no more.