CHAPTER 46: BATH

Eira’s POV

I stirred at the faint sound of movement and slowly opened my eyes, only to find myself staring into the faces I hated most. But along with the hatred, a cold fear gripped my heart, forcing me to sink deeper into the sofa as if it could protect me.

Ever since that night when they tortured me by using my deepest fear against me, I felt like I’d lost my mind. Everything I looked at seemed threatening. All I wanted was to scream until my lungs gave out and then crawl into a dark corner where no one could ever find me.

Reality had started creeping back the moment I cried over that familiar dish—the food I hadn’t even smelled in the last six years. It was something I used to love, tied to countless memories. Just the scent was enough to stir warmth from the past, warmth I thought had died inside me long ago.

Memories I had buried deep started rising to the surface, and all I could do was cry over them.

I had watched the two of them mutter curses before leaving, and only then did Roman come to me, offering comfort. I felt an odd relief when those two were gone, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to lower my guard.

Being abused and hurt no longer mattered to me, but facing my fear again was unbearable. That kind of torture was far worse than death.

"Have some water," Roman said gently, holding a glass in front of me.

I looked at him, already knowing the truth. There was no need to wonder why he was being kind. Like all the other men, he was just waiting for the chance to fuck me.

I only wanted to see how far his deception would go, how deeply he could act or pretend to be this gentle and considerate to a woman he despised.

He met my gaze, as if trying to read me, to peer into my soul. But I was certain he found nothing. My face held no expression, my eyes carried no emotion. I was like a corpse—empty and cold.

He urged me again, and because my throat burned with thirst, I took the glass and drank.

After I had a few sips, he spoke again. "Liam will be here soon to check on you. He said you’re allowed to bathe now, to clean yourself."

His words struck a nerve. I couldn’t even remember when I’d last bathed. Maybe it was the day before the traffickers sold me to Paul and Henry, who then handed me over to the Alphas.

It had been a long time. I must stink like a sewer. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t the first time I had gone days without even washing my face.

"I’ll help you with the bath," he added. "Afterward, I’ll apply ointments to your wounds. They’ve mostly healed now—just dried scabs remain."

Help me with a bath? Or just an excuse to fuck me?

Well, not that I had a choice. Maybe it was better this way. Once he realized that even after fucking me, he wouldn’t get a pup, he might eventually give up—after using me for a while.

He got the glass from me, then said, "I’ll heat up water and take you for a bath. After that, we can have lunch together."

As if he didn’t expect a response, he turned and walked away without waiting.

A minute later, he returned—and without any warning—lifted me into his arms and carried me to a room. It was a bedroom in this house.

At least this place didn’t feel unfamiliar. It reminded me of the home I had lived in six years ago. It didn’t carry that cold, suffocating air of a stranger’s property. There was a faint warmth here, something I used to feel... before I forgot what warmth even was.

He carried me straight into the bathroom and set me down gently on a bathing stool.

"You’re weak. You can’t do this on your own. I’m just helping," he said, his voice neutral.

I stared at him silently, though my mind screamed the truth. I’m not dumb. This helping session will turn into something else soon enough.

I just hadn’t expected him to do it right here, in the bathroom. I thought he’d wait for the couch, the bed, or even the floor of one of the rooms. But then again, it wasn’t my concern. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut, silence my mind, and let him do whatever the hell he wanted. I was far too exhausted to show any resistance.

"We need to take this shirt off," he said, already reaching for the buttons of the dark shirt I wore.

He undid them one by one, then slipped the shirt off me and tossed it aside. I sat there, completely naked.

But I didn’t feel any shame. Being naked had become a routine part of my life, while having clothes felt like a luxury I had long since forgotten. Maybe even people in ancient times, with their leaves and tree branches, had worn more in their lifetime than I had in the past six years.

"Once you’re better, we’ll go buy clothes for you," he said, his tone casual. "For now, you’ll have to make do with whatever I can think of. I don’t exactly have experience shopping for women."

I listened quietly, not believing a damn word he said.

He was trying to coax me, to build my trust so I’d willingly let him fuck me. Nothing new. Men had done it countless times—whispered sweet lies, pretended to care, softened their voices like they gave a damn. That fake tenderness always disappeared the second they got me into bed.

Over time, I learned not to react. I just gave them what they wanted, played along with the act, never once falling for the performance.

Roman was no different. He was just cleaning me up to make me more fuckable.

He knelt in front of me and gently wrapped my injured toes in plastic so the water wouldn’t touch them. They still hadn’t healed.

I looked down at him. His face was calm, composed, even kind.

But I knew better. I wasn’t going to fall for the act.

He stood up, turned on the shower, and adjusted the temperature. Once satisfied, he held the showerhead above me and asked, "Is it warm enough?"

I didn’t answer. He took my silence as permission, assuming whatever suited him.

"I’ll wash your hair first," he murmured, running his fingers through the mess of dirt and tangles. He poured shampoo over my scalp and began gently working it into my hair. "Let me know if you feel uncomfortable. I might tug by mistake."

I didn’t respond. I focused instead on the water cascading over my head. It felt like freshness itself after years of filth and pain. The sensation was almost surreal—soothing in a way that made me want to dissolve into it, as if the water could cleanse not just my body, but my suffering too. For a brief second, I wished I could drown in it, vanish with the pain it washed away.

Once he finished rinsing the shampoo out, he said, "The wounds may be healing, but we won’t use soap today. I’m worried it might reopen something and cause bleeding."

He washed my back carefully, then placed the showerhead back on the stand.

"Can you stand up?" he asked. "We need to rinse your back and legs."

Though he framed it as a question, he was already taking my hands in his, guiding me upward.

"You can lean against the wall for support," he added.

Obediently, I took a step forward and braced myself against the cold tile, facing the wall with my palms flat against it. My breath caught. I knew what was coming.

He was going to fuck me like this—didn’t want to look at the bruises on my front, all the torn skin and fresh wounds. So this way, he could have me without seeing the ugliness.

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the wall. My fingers clenched tight against the surface. I braced myself to feel the pain, heart pounding in dread, waiting for the sound of his belt, the rustle of his pants coming down.

A few moments passed.

The water flowed steadily down my back. I felt him step closer. My brow tensed. My body stiffened. It would happen any second now.

But then I heard him say, "Relax. I’m just washing your back and legs. I don’t plan to do anything to you, yet. Not in the bathroom. Not when you’re hurt."

Another carefully played move in the game of deception.

So, he would wait.

Wait until the wounds were no longer raw and ugly.

Wait until I was presentable enough to fuck.