I slip into the steaming bath, paranoid the entire time there that Dryas will return. I feel not just naked but exposed in a different way.

How is it that twenty minutes into our second conversation he’s already pushing my limits?

I wash, scrubbing my scalp and my skin to rid myself of all the grease that has accumulated since I put the wedding dress on. The lavender-scented soap and a eucalyptus-based shampoo smell wonderful to me. Hot water feels sublime, too. I loathe to leave it, but I force myself to be quick.

When I’m ready to slip out of the bath, I find plenty of white towels neatly folded on a wooden drying rack. Wrapping one around my body and one around my wet hair, I find a toothbrush by the sink.

After brushing my teeth and drinking water from the sink, I feel like a new person. Wiping the foggy glass, I take a deep breath and try to focus.

What do I do next?

I’m hungry. But before I can do anything about that, I have to get dressed. Dryas didn’t leave me any parting instructions, he just said that we would talk.

Where am I supposed to find new clothes?

Opening the bathroom door, I shiver at the chill of room-temperature air that rushes in. I peek my towel-clad head down the hall, finding it empty.

When I walk outside though, Dryas materializes from one of the rooms.

“In here,” he says, nodding his head. “Come get dressed.”

That makes a shiver run down my spine. I look down at my feet as I shuffle down the carpet-clad hallway. Feeling his gaze on my skin, I turn red as a beet when I walk toward him.

What does he think when he looks at me like that?

I can’t even begin to fathom it.

“Hurry,” he admonishes. “I want breakfast, but you can’t eat breakfast dressed like that.”

I do as he says, padding quickly into the room. It’s a whole room turned into a closet, divided into sections based on what sort of clothing and what color they are. Shirts and pants on the left; dresses on the right. A wall of white drawers and dozens of shelves with shoes sit neatly in the middle. Everything is pastel or white. Everything is very chic and expensive-looking.

There is no furniture here except a white lounge chair.

Dryas takes one look at my wide eyes and sighs. “Come on, we are in a hurry. Here, how about a dress?”

He walks over to the far right, gesturing to the dresses.

“What color?” He looks at me, his chartreuse eyes speculative. “Light blue, to match your eyes?”

I say nothing, dropping my gaze again. It is very odd for Dryas to address me the way that my sister would talk to me, in this situation. He pulls a dress from a rack of a hundred others, tossing it to me. I catch it, moving quickly to keep up with him.

“What else? Oh, panties. Mmmm.” He goes to a wall of drawers in the middle of the room, pulling the first one open. He lifts out a slip of white lace. Turning to look at me with critical eyes, he motions to the top half of my body. “What are you, a C cup?”

I blush bright red. “I… I don’t know.”

His gaze narrows. “You don’t know? Just tell me, so that I will give you the right size.”

Clutching the dress and my towel close, I shake my head. “I really don’t know. We didn’t wear brassieres in the convent.”

He frowns, then shrugs. “Fine. You’ll do the same here, then.”

Dropping the bit of lace back in the drawer, he rummages around. He picks up another piece of white lace, transparent even from where I stand. I swallow heavily.

He holds it out, expectant. “Here.”

Padding over to him, I try to grab the panties quickly. He doesn’t let go, though. Dryas is so much taller than I am. He raises the slip of lace, his eyes gleaming wickedly.

My heartbeat picks up as we make eye contact.

Why is this man so wicked?

Fear binds my tongue, keeps my sharp-tongued rebuke in my mouth. There is that madness in his eyes again, unlike any I have ever known.

“The rules are different here than they were in the convent,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Here, by the ocean, everything you do is for me. Do you understand? Your goal is to satisfy me. When you get dressed, you do it for me. When you undress, you do it for me. Eat, sleep, sunbathe… you are doing it all for me, to keep me interested.”

He lets his gaze run down my body, making me tremble. He has made it perfectly clear that he expects me to throw myself at him… if I don’t do it of my own volition, it will be done to me.

“You do understand that if I feel unsatisfied, I will return you to Father Derrik?” I go pale, which makes him smile. “I’ll make sure that he knows what a whore you’ve been. Not only that, but I’ll hurt pretty little Amabel. I’m sure that you don’t want that.”

My eyes mist over.

“Say yes,” he says, his eyes on my towel-clad breasts. “I’ve made it crystal clear, have I not?”

Choked by my own trepidation, it’s all I can do to nod. He lets go of the panties, his lips lifting. “Good girl. Now I’m going to watch you dress yourself.”

Dryas spins and sits on the lounge chair, splaying himself out like a cat. I stand only a few feet away from him, frozen, gripping the panties and the ice blue dress.

What he’s asking for is beyond sinful. A man that I’m not married to wants to see me completely naked. And he admits, it is for his pleasure.

My cheeks burn. Surely Father Derrik would have something to say about that? Then again, Father Derrik is not here. I have to remember that.

Dryas saved me from Father Derrik, though he doesn’t know it. He can’t ever know what happened during confession, I know that.

His gaze is on my body, making me wish for something to cover myself other than the towel. He looks at me like he’s a wolf and I’m a timid little rabbit.

How am I going to do what he commands? He just sits there, patiently considering me.

“Take your hair down,” he says, waving a hand. “And then take off your towel. Hurry up. I’m growing bored.”

I gulp, pulling the towel from my damp hair. I drop it to the ground. Then I clutch the dress close to my body, heart beating fast.

Dryas watches, saying nothing. Unwrapping the towel from around my body, I awkwardly pull the lace up my legs. My breasts are bared for a second, my nipples hardening. Then I turn away to unzip the dress, parting the zipper down the back.

I can feel his eyes boring into my backside. Tears press against my eyelids, but I refuse to let this exercise make me cry.

As I practically shove myself into the dress, he stands up behind me. I get my arms through the short sleeves and smooth down the tight-fitted bodice.

My breath freezes as Dryas comes up behind me, his fingertips caressing my bared back beneath the zipper. A tear rolls down my face. My head bends. My eyes close. I’m so ashamed right now, so exposed.

He starts to zip the dress up, going slowly. It feels like forever, each tooth taking an eon. Then he touches the pearl-button clasp at the back of the neck, closing it with deft fingers. The feel of his hot fingers on the back of my neck, lingering... reminding me that he’s the one with all the power here… making my breath struggle to a stop for just a second…

It’s a sensation I will never forget.

Then he drops his hand. “I want you to see something.”

He heads out, and I follow him. He doesn’t go far, stopping outside the very next room. I look inside and find a sleek bedroom, all done in white and cedar.

His gaze fixes on the bed. “This is the bedroom we will share, once I have taken your innocence.”

I don’t say anything, but my mind whirls. Dryas has no way of knowing that my virginity has already been taken if that’s what he means by take your innocence.

Should I just pretend it is still intact, to please him? It’s not like I was given a choice in the matter, back when it was taken from me.

And then I wonder, where will I sleep until he has his way with me?

He sighs. “I am hungry. Are you ready to go downstairs?”

I whirl around, the breath caught in my throat. But Dryas is already moving down the hallway, unconcerned about what I’m feeling. He moves faster than I do, and I have to give myself a shake and hurry to catch up to him.

Following him down the stairs, I head through the living room and into the massive kitchen. He points to the same spot at the bar where I sat before, and I slide onto the barstool.

Dryas begins pulling down bowls and getting out the things needed to make wheat toast, mashed avocado, and poached eggs. I’m surprised that he’s cooking for himself, clearly being a man of means.

Then again, I’m not sure that anyone else is here in this huge echoing space. Certainly, I haven’t seen anyone cooking or cleaning yet.

I sit and watch him as he gently poaches the eggs, mashes an avocado with lemon juice, and toasts the dark bread. He does it silently, intent on what he is doing. Looking at the bread, smelling the scent of everything cooking, I start to salivate.

He plates it all in a stack, pulling another couple of bottles of water from the refrigerator. He slides me a plate and a bottle of water, then finds forks and napkins. He places them by my plate as he takes a seat beside me.

I hesitate, looking up at him. It smells amazing, but I haven’t forgotten that he drugged my food only half a day ago. He frowns.

“Eat,” he snaps, grabbing his own bottle of water.

I drop my gaze to my plate. It does smell amazing. Maybe I can just eat, without drinking from the bottle of water. My fingers tremble as I pick up my fork, cutting into the thick yellow yolk.

The yolk spreads everywhere, coating the rest of the mashed avocado and dripping down the toast. He uses his fingers to pick up the bread and take a bite, so I do the same.

I close my eyes, moaning silently. It is better than anything I’ve ever tasted, the yeastiness of the bread complimenting the fattiness of the egg yolk and avocado. I’ve gone without food before as punishment, but this is the best meal I’ve ever gotten afterward.

I look at him, doing a quick re-calculation of his character. Being able to cook doesn’t add much to his moral fiber, but it does bring a new layer to his personality. It leaves me with more questions.

What type of man is as brutal as Dryas, but then turns around and cooks so well?

An insane one, I suppose.

Trying to get a handle on him is a little like watching a portrait in progress. At first, I have only the background, only the vaguest of outlines. The features, the details that make the painting unique, they have yet to be filled in.

I mull it all over as I eat my toast.