Dominic (Benedetti Brothers 2)

“There,” he said. “Almost done.”

And to my utter shame, he turned me on my side and cleaned me in the back too, taking his time again until he felt satisfied, before finally allowing me to lie back as he drained the tub.

“Let’s get some clean water in here, so we can wash your hair.”

He stood, his gaze sliding the length of me.

I pushed myself up a little, although I still needed the support of the tub, and cleared my throat.

He allowed me to sit up and refilled the tub, taking a seat again as he picked up a half-full bottle of some cheap shampoo. How many girls had been here just like me? How many had he washed like he was washing me? How many had he—I had to swallow hard not to choke on the word—trained? Sold into slavery?

I felt my eyes welling with tears. Was I just fooling myself? I was in so deep. After James, I’d kept out of things and had warned Mateo to do so too. I warned him not to get involved with the mob. With men like Victor Scava. But he had, and he’d paid the ultimate price. Would I now pay that too?

His thumb rubbed across my cheek, and I realized I’d started to cry. I watched his eyes as he wiped away my tears, expecting some rude comment, some sick joke about my future, but all I got was silence.

I turned my head away, and the moment was gone. Poof.

“Deep breath.”

He had his hand on the top of my head as he said it. He barely gave me time to register the words though before shoving my head down under the surface. Water gurgled in my ears, and my scream turned to bubbles before fingers pulled at my hair and drew me back out.

I sucked in air, suddenly panicked, and all he did was chuckle.

“Nothing like a dunk under water to wake you up, huh?”

I spat water and coughed while he poured shampoo on my head.

“Told you to take a deep breath. Next time, you’ll know to do it.”

“Why?” I cried out.

“To shampoo your hair, silly.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Oh, that.”

He rubbed until he got lather, his fingers digging into my scalp.

“Money. Why else? Why does anyone do anything but for money?”

I looked up at him, wanting to see his face, his eyes. Needing to in order to read him.

“Let me see your face.”

He paused. Had he been expecting something else? “Going under again, deep breath.”

I barely had time to think, gulping air before he shoved me under then, moments later, pulled me back up.

“Your name, at least tell me your name.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking different questions?”

He dunked me again, three times more before the suds were gone. He pulled the plug from the drain.

He took one of the two threadbare towels from the rack—again making me think of those who had come before me—and once the water had drained, he draped it over my shoulders and lifted me up to stand. He held on to me when he did so, maybe testing himself how much the drug had worn off. Not nearly enough, considering my knees buckled as soon as I stood upright.

Wrapping one of the towels around me, he carried me back into the bedroom and deposited me on the bed.

“Questions like what’s going to happen to me once I’m sold?”

Leaving me there, he went back into the bathroom to return a moment later with a hairbrush. I noticed the hairs stuck in the bristles. Blonde and red and brown. I wanted to throw up.

He opened the towel as if unwrapping a candy bar and pulled it out from under me, then patted me dry before dropping it on the floor.

Goose bumps rose all over my body, both at the cold temperature in the room on my still damp skin and the thought of my future. Of the fate that awaited me.

“Or who will buy me, and what will my new owner expect of me?”

He sat leaning against the headboard and lifted me up so that he cradled me between his thighs, making me very aware of my naked back against his bare chest. At least he was warm. After towel drying my hair with the second towel, he started to brush it, his touch not quite gentle, but also not cruel. Not purposely at least.

“Will he fuck me himself, or pass me around to a dozen friends to initiate me?”

I wondered if he used that tone—quiet and unaffected—on purpose. If it was meant to scare me. If his breath on my face was to let me know I would have no boundaries. That nothing was mine anymore, not even the air I breathed.

Could he feel the quiet tremors breaking me apart inside?

Would he be so callous if he could?