I would’ve murdered for a painkiller—something to dull the mind-numbing agony.

A cool hand pressed against my naked behind, holding me against the mattress.

My mattress?

Where am I?

I couldn’t tell without raising my eyes. I would have to tense my spine to look, and no way in hell was I moving.

“Stay still,” Jethro ordered, his voice calm but lacking the usual icy edge.

I froze, just waiting for more torture or horrible mind games. I was at my weakest, most vulnerable. I had no defence—mental or physical—if he decided to hurt me more.

His touch drifted over a particularly violent lash mark.

I hissed, biting my lip.

I wanted to moan—to see if vocalizing the agony would help release it. Coupled with the cuts on my feet from running and my bruises from vertigo, I’d never been so banged up.

Vaughn would kill him for this. My brother could never stand to see me hurt.

The bed shifted as Jethro disappeared. Vaguely, the sound of a tap being turned on and the groan of old pipes expanding with water drifted to my ears.

I didn’t know how much time passed; I drifted in and out of pain, wishing I could transplant a pair of wings from the stuffed birds around the room and fly away.

Then the mattress dipped again, my skin crackling with awareness as Jethro hovered beside me.

Something clanked onto the bedside table, smelling sharply of antiseptic.

I flinched, turning my head to see what it was.

At least we have drugs to stop infection. Back in the 1400s they wouldn’t have been so lucky.

Jethro’s fingers landed on my hair, stroking softly. “I’m going to fix you. Don’t move.”

“Fix me?” My voice came out scratching and sore from previous screaming. “You can’t fix me.”

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he dipped a soft white cloth into the bowl of clear brown liquid and wrung it out.

His eyes met mine then locked onto the mess that was my back. The moment he pressed the warm dampness against a cut, I burst into tears. The lashes roared with everlasting brimstone. “Stop! Ah, it hurts.”

His other hand held me down, petting my head as if I would endanger myself further. “I know it hurts, but I have to clean your wounds before I can bandage them.”

My mind twisted, trying to make sense of this. “Why—why are you the one tending to me?”

He took a while to reply, dipping the now hated rag into the disinfectant concoction and once again searing my skin with purgatory.

“Because you’re mine.”

I hated that reason. “I’m not yours.”

His voice came softly. “There are a lot worse things than being mine, Ms. Weaver. Being under my control means I’ll do anything to keep you safe. Keep you from other’s cruelty. Don’t throw my offer in my face without fully realising what I’m giving you.”

His touch dropped lower, gently dabbing my open sores.

My hands fisted the sheet, breathing hard through my nose. My head ached from tensing, and tears leaked unbidden from my eyes.

“I do know what you’re offering, and I don’t want it.”

The moment I said it, I wanted to snatch the words back.

I wanted him on my side.

I wanted him to care for me, so I could use him to exterminate his family like vermin.

“Are you sure?” he murmured. “Are you sure you want to throw away whatever’s building between us?”

I flinched, bracing myself to deny it. There’s nothing building between us.

You always were a hopeless liar, Nila.

How could I admit to an emerging connection between hunter and prey?

Jethro caressed my hair again. “I know what you’re thinking—I know you feel it, too.” He dropped his voice, whispering, “Don’t lie, Ms. Weaver. Not when we both know the truth. Do you deny we’re drawn to each other? Fighting more with ourselves than what we know we shouldn’t feel?”

Silence.

I had no reply. Nothing that wouldn’t give me away.

Jethro continued to rinse and dab, slowly but tenderly cleaning my smarting back.

“You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve met. But still so naïve, which makes you incredibly dangerous.” His touch pulled me deeper into his icy charm.

“What are you trying to do?” I pinched my lips together as a particular sharp lance of pain caught me by surprise. “Why are you saying all of this?”

A minute ticked past.

For the longest moment, I worried he would never reply, just like so many of my questions.

“I don’t know.” His answer ached with confession, cleaving open my chest.

Memories of what happened at the end of the debt repayment took my mind prisoner. “How could you do that? How could you come after hurting me so much?” I pressed my cheek harder against the bed as agony bonfired down my spine. “To get off on drawing blood makes you sadistic. It makes you twisted.”

Jethro paused, letting me go completely to swirl the cloth in the bowl. The brown liquid turned rusty from my blood. “Sadistic?”

I swallowed back a groan as I arched my neck, making eye contact with his turbulent golden gaze. “Yes. You enjoyed seeing me hurt from running in the woods. You like seeing me uncomfortable. Sadistic fits you perfectly.”

He sighed, looking at the dripping cloth in his hands. It stained his trousers, not that he seemed to care. “I’m many things but not a sadist.”

I scoffed, tearing my gaze away.

He didn’t deserve a reply when he blatantly lied.

Silence fell between us as he slowly continued to wash my back.

His hands dropped lower—to where he’d branded me with his orgasm.

I flinched. He sucked in a harsh breath as he reached the base of my spine. The residue stickiness felt foreign and unwanted. I wanted his pleasure gone. I didn’t want to wear evidence of his toxic mind games.

I whispered, “See the evidence? You came in seconds. You were so caught up in needing a release, you couldn’t even wait to subdue me to rape me.” I sighed. “Who needs to come so badly they’ll throw their dignity away and come like a little boy caught looking at Playboy for the first time?”

The memory of walking in on Vaughn doing exactly that was seared into my brain. I’d been scarred for life after that. Terrified of what it meant. Unable to understand what my brother was doing hurting himself in such a manner.