Without saying another word, he tugged me out of bed toward the small bathroom and pulled us both inside before I could change my mind.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” John yelled cheekily, and we both ignored him. “Let us know if you want help. We’re happy to join.”
Scorpius mumbled under his breath, “We’ll get to that later.”
I stumbled. He really was becoming obsessed with John.
“Speak for yourself,” Luka muttered as the door closed with a loud click.
Suddenly, I was trapped.
With the king who liked pain.
Chapter 23
Scorpius
SHOWERS
Cordolium (noun): heartfelt grief.
DAY 11, HOUR 12
“While we’re in the shower, I’m in charge,” Arabella said.
She was adorable.
And delusional.
I quirked my eyebrow and crossed my arms over my chest as I mockingly waited for her directives. Then I remembered I was trying to appear nonthreatening, and I softened my features, relaxed my posture.
Earlier her breathing had changed like she was in pain, and my stomach had plummeted because just being in my presence had hurt her. I didn’t want that.
I inhaled deeply. Her icy scent filled the small bathroom.
She was pure adrenaline to the veins.
Muscles flexing, senses heightened, I forced myself to keep my arms at my side. Fingers relaxed.
Listening to her wrestle with John had triggered something inside me.
They were both so noisy.
So playful.
I wanted them both.
I’d start with Arabella.
Cold wafted off her, and goose bumps prickled my skin from her proximity.
The bathroom was pathetically small, and just standing in front of the shower meant we were chest to chest, mere inches between us.
She breathed unsteadily, and her breath puffed against the exposed skin on my neck.
I held back a moan.
“So. Now that we’re in here, we’re going to…” Arabella trailed off like she wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to command of me.
I swallowed down a mocking laugh because I knew exactly what she needed.
She needed to be cared for.
Looked after.
Pampered.
“Um,” she said awkwardly as she struggled to come up with an idea.
It took every ounce of control I possessed to appear receptive to directions.
It was the least I could do.
Ever since I’d learned that Arabella had been tortured as a child, a sick sense of guilt twisted my stomach. I woke up nauseous and went to bed feeling weak. It permeated every second of my day.
Just like myself, my Revered had suffered at the hands of others when she was too young to defend herself.
Yet I’d called her pampered. Weak. I’d tormented her and added to her distress.
I’d been a fool.
My chest ached with regret.
If Arabella was ever going to accept me as her Protector, I needed to build a relationship with her, which would only happen if I came across as nonthreatening.
I forced my shoulders to relax and tried to look approachable.
My lips curled up in a welcoming smile.
Corvus always grouched about how stupid John was with his “fucking dimples and constant smiles.” Most likely because Orion said Arabella liked to comment on how much she liked John’s jokes and smile.
Fucking John.
There was something intriguing about a grown man making jokes and acting so idiotic all the time. He was just so nice.
But if he was the type of man my Revered preferred, then that was exactly who I would be for her. Just because I wasn’t nice didn’t mean I couldn’t pretend I was.
My plan was simple.
Effective.
Failure was not an option.
“What’s wrong with you?” Arabella asked me with concern. “Do you need to use the bathroom? Should I leave? Why are you standing like that?”
She moved toward the door.
Frustration welled. I stepped in front of her and blocked her exit. “I’m fine, say your demands,” I snarled, annoyed that she was misinterpreting my relaxed demeanor.
Could she not tell I was pretending to be a nice guy? What was wrong with her?
She scoffed. “No need to get all huffy.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but my teeth clicked as I shut my lips, and I breathed deeply.
I would wait patiently like a normal, nice man would.
For her, I would pretend.
“Why are you making that face?” she asked incredulously, then whispered, “Are you having stomach pain? Sometimes I also get it after a battle. Don’t worry, I think it’s normal.”
I gaped down at her with disbelief.
She continued rambling, “It’s probably just an ulcer from worry. I read somewhere that loads of people get them, especially during violent times in history with lots of upheaval.”
A headache throbbed against my temple as I struggled to come up with a response to her inane statements.
What would a nice guy say in this situation?
“Do you need me to get you medicine for your stomach?” I asked slowly as I pulled my lips up into an approachable smile.
“No need to snarl at me.” She made a disgruntled noise. “I was just saying.”
I wanted to scream with frustration because I wasn’t snarling, I was fucking smiling.
Why can’t she tell the difference?
Stepping forward, I used my larger size to surround her.
Frost burned my tongue, and my heart thudded erratically in my sternum. My skin tingled with the urge to wrap my fingers around her cold flesh and dig my nails into her skin.
I needed to mark her as mine.
I wanted to hurt her until she cried with pleasure.
I wanted to show her how much I cared.
I wanted her. Period.
Lately, everything had been dull and unexciting. The ungodly were predictable, and the infected were pathetic.
Everything was dissatisfying.
Boring.
Everything except for the woman who was standing before me, trapped in three cubic feet of space by her own voluntary will.
I used my larger size to press her against the wall.
“Back off!” she yelled abruptly, and the side of her hand slammed into my trachea.
I stumbled back, unprepared for her outburst of violence.
Goose bumps exploded down my back, and I shivered from the ecstasy of her touch.
My throat throbbed with pain, and it felt delicious.
I licked my lips.
The skin on my neck burned where her icy fingers had touched. I pressed my hands against it and marveled at the difference in temperature where she’d made contact.
Adjusting myself in my sweatpants, I took a deep breath as I tried to figure out how to proceed.
Should I pin her against the wall and ravish her? Beg her to punch me in the throat again? Dig my nails into her throat as punishment until her blood coated both of us?
So many fucking options.
I was paralyzed by indecision, so turned on that I couldn’t think rationally.
She sighed and repeated, “This is what we’re going to do.” There was a creak as she turned the shower nozzle, then the sound of rushing water. “We’re going to get into the fucking shower.”
I gulped.
Pressing my fingers harder against my neck, I tried not to jerk my hips as I remembered the blissful pain that had rocked through me when she’d punched me.
Then I remembered I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t.