And she does try. She hits and kicks at me, suddenly a violent little ball of venom. I have to pin her down on the bed, my knees straddling her waist, my weight falling into manacling her wrists with my hands. I sit on her pelvis to pin her down.
After a moment of useless struggle, she goes still, breathing hard beneath me. Her gaze is less angry than it is…hurt?
This is why I shouldn’t have mixed business with pleasure. I am fucking this up so badly.
“Let me go.” Her eyes fill with angry tears.
“Don’t make this hard, dietka.”
She changes tack. “I need to use the loo.”
It’s probably a lie, but what can I do? I’m not going to make her soil the bed. “Okay. Let’s go.” I should put the zip ties back on her, but I decide to take the risk and just hang onto her. She’s small and not trained in hand to hand combat like I am. She could get lucky and take me out, but it seems highly unlikely.
I ease my hips up from hers and swing a leg off the bed, tug her by her wrists to pivot her up to sit then stand. Her glare still holds the same hurt I saw a moment ago.
I fold her wrists behind her back one at a time then turn her to face the bathroom and walk behind her, holding her prisoner.
When we get to the bathroom, she uses the toilet then turns on the shower. “I feel gross,” she says sulkily. Without looking at me, she starts stripping off her clothes, starting with her knee-high socks.
I shut the door and lean my ass against it. “Fine. Use shower.” I fold my arms over my chest.
There’s no window in the shower. She’s not getting out. It seems harmless enough.
She unzips her skirt and lets it drop, then she takes off the blouse, her bra, and finally her panties.
I try to keep my gaze… well, diffused. I can’t very well look away or turn my back. She might bash my head in with the back of the ceramic toilet tank. But it’s damn hard not to appreciate her beautiful body. She has full, ripe breasts that contrast with her tiny rib cage and narrow waist. Not much in the hips department, but her legs are shapely, and that ass…so cute.
She ignores me and pulls off the elastic bands holding the ends of her braids to unwind her long dark hair. She steps into the shower and slides the frosted glass door closed.
“Don’t you have any conditioner?” she demands.
“Nyet. Why would I need conditioner?”
“I need conditioner. Do you know how tangled my hair is going to be?”
“Sorry, printsessa.”
She whips the shower door open to flip me the bird. I give her a hard look even though her brat act is totally growing on me. She slides the door closed again, but not before I get an eyeful of her wet body, even more glorious with droplets of water dripping down, begging to be licked.
Damn.
She’s in there forever. I think about telling her to hurry the fuck up, but what does it matter, really? This is the only chance she’ll get to be free of the zip ties, I might as well let her enjoy it.
“Who is Nadia?” she demands after a stretch. I hear the accusation in her voice.
Suddenly, the hurt in her eyes and voice makes more sense.
Fuck.
That means she’s already attached to me. Attached enough to be jealous of a girl who calls me on the phone.
Why did I have to get sexual with her last night?
I don’t need this complication.
She doesn’t need this complication. Or does it make it easier? No, that was my thinking last night. Get her to my place consensually to avoid further trauma. But it’s really more of a delayed trauma.
Because ultimately, there’s one way this ends: with her father dead by my hand.
How’s she going to feel about that if she thinks we’re friends? Lovers?
I don’t answer, turning the angles over in my mind. I’m not practiced yet at making split-second decisions. I’m the cleaner. The one who thinks through things after they happen. I take time to chew over a situation.
Suddenly, she flies out of the still-running shower, the handle of my razor clutched like a weapon. She leaps on me, straddling my waist, and tries to drive the handle of the razor into my eye. I catch her wrist, which is slippery and wet and storm forward into the shower, where I pin her back against the tile wall. Water soaks through my clothes, fills my boots. I bang the wrist of the hand holding the razor against the tile to make her drop it.
“Who is she?” she screams. “Why did you fuck with me? Why–” Her voice breaks.
“She’s my sister,” I say, all my reasoning out the window now. “I shouldn’t have fucked with you. I shouldn’t have. It was wrong. I’m sorry, malysh.”