"Eugene, you shouldn't go out at night."
He said gently, too gently, as if speaking to a child. Yet, his hand caressed Eugene's nape, slow and deliberate, a warning disguised as affection.
He was angry.
She could tell.
His grey eyes, beautiful but unsteady, flickered with emotions: longing, fear, desire, and something rawer, almost pain.
It was strange, seeing him like that.
For this man, this giant, two heads taller than her, brought down by something as small as worry.
"You're going to bleed again." He traced the wound hidden on her shoulder, his touch both tender and punishing. "And in my shirt, no less. You think you can run, wearing that?"
Her breath hitched. The shirt that clung to her, his shirt -- too long, too big, and probably still carried his scent.
"You're wearing nothing beneath it. Bandages cover half the places I left my mark on... and you're walking like a broken little thing. Really, Eugene... I expected better planning from you."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Or did you plan to seduce the guards dressed like this?"
She glared at him, displeased at the implication. "If you hadn't shredded my clothes, maybe I would've had options."
He chuckled softly, a sound so tired it barely qualified as laughter. "You really thought the tea would work?"
Eugene's lips pressed into a thin line. "It should have."
"You used too little. You should have increased the dosage."
"I used the whole bottle," she scowled.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his warmth. Her broken ankle throbbed when she tried to back away.
The hallway behind her stretched endlessly, a cruel illusion of entrapment.
"Go back inside, Eugene." His voice softened again, coaxing, dangerous. "You're tired. You're hurt. Just... stop trying to leave."
Her hands curled in fists. "Then, you should have let me go."
His expression flickered-- hurt, maybe-- before sinking into something darker.
"Then, how did you plan on paying me back?"
She wanted to hit him for that. To burn him. To make him feel the way he made her feel--cornered, small, powerless.
But, before she could speak, he lifted her with ease, carrying her against his chest, his arm firm under her knees. Her head pressed against his shoulder. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath her cheek.
"Put me down."
He didn't.
"Hey, pu-"
"Dear," he interrupted, softly, almost kindly. "Or Sasha. That's how you should call me by. Not hey. Or... " His eyes gleamed faintly in the dark. "Do you want me to f**k you all over again until you cry my name?"
The threat sank in. She didn't argue with him after that.
"Good girl," he whispered, brushing a stray lock of her black hair from her cheek, "I'll leave you alone for tonight. In the meantime, shall we get some sleep?"
Her throat closed. The ache in her stomach pulsed beneath the bandages. She was too tired to move, too tired to curse at how this had started -- how she, of all people, had ended up here.
Ah, seriously…
How did things end up like this?