His words have the impact of a natural disaster. Sudden and wreaking. It’s not that I haven’t thought of it that way before, it’s that I always thought I’d escape my dad. That I don’t live in the shadow he cast over my life.

That’s why I changed everything we used to do together. I even dyed my hair blonde at some point, and I hate the blonde me. She was a coward and a thief who jumped from motel rooms.

“How about you?” My voice is steady but low in volume.

He pauses cutting an avocado. It’s been secretly becoming my favourite new food. “Me?”

“If I keep giving you leverage, won’t you also use it against me?”

“I don’t want to, but I will if you force me.”

“Me? Force you? You’re the one who’s forcing me right now.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Or what?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that.” He shoves a piece of avocado in my mouth, shutting down my protest. “And I’m not forcing you. If I did, you wouldn’t have a choice, but you do.”

I swallow the piece, commemorating its taste to memory. Who knows if he’ll take this small luxury away? Jonathan enforces the most sadistic type of cruelty. He makes you get used to things, then snatches them away as if they never existed. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep better at night?”

“I’m well aware of who and what I am. I don’t have to delude myself, Aurora. You do.”

“W-what?”

“You’ve been squirming and rubbing your thighs since I sat beside you. It doesn’t matter how much you tell yourself you don’t want me or you don’t want to get out of this situation. You and I both know your body doesn’t lie.”

“That is not true.” I’m thankful my voice doesn’t betray me.

Jonathan tilts his head, and I expect him to try and prove me wrong like he always does.

Pushing my buttons and cementing his supremacy is one of his control-freak methods that he doesn’t hesitate to use.

So I’m surprised when he stands. “Follow me.”

“To where?”

“Do I need to throw you over my shoulder again?”

I jerk up, not wanting to feel whatever the hell I did when he spanked my arse earlier.

He steps into the bathroom, and I stop at the threshold.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asks in a clipped voice, his nostrils flaring.

“Why are we here?”

He reaches into the cabinet and retrieves another first aid kit. Now that I think about it, he seems to have those everywhere. Almost like he’s expecting to injure himself in every room he walks in. Which is weird, considering that Jonathan is far from being the clumsy type.

He retrieves something from the box and closes it. “You need to shower.”

“I can do that on my own.”

“Not with your injuries.”

Before I can protest, he appears in front of me and wraps what seems like a plastic waterproof bandage around both my palms.

He then kneels and I’m momentarily stunned by the fact that Jonathan is willingly kneeling at my feet. It’s a sight I never thought I’d witness in my lifetime.

His fingers strap a similar plastic thingie around my knee. I resist the urge to close my eyes as his skin lingers on mine for a second too long.

Then he runs the water in the bath, and I remain there, torn between escaping back to the room and having him chase me — and inevitably ruining whatever gentle side he’s showing — and staying there.

He pours the bath product, the apple-scented one, and the smell fills the bathroom’s space.

When he’s satisfied with the temperature, he lets the water run. He faces me as he removes his jacket and tie, hangs them on the towel hanger, and rolls the sleeves of his shirt to above his elbows.

He’s barely showing any skin, but watching him revealing his arms is like a porn show all on its own. The only reason I don’t look away is because I refuse to lose my ground.

Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.

“Remove the nightgown.”

I lift my chin up and don’t comply. If I follow his order, it’ll feel like I’m agreeing to whatever madness he’s planning.

“If you want something done, do it yourself.”

“What did I say about that attitude, Aurora?”

I huff, but the sound soon vanishes when he grabs the straps, his fingers gliding over my skin along with them as he lowers them down my body.

Staring at a fixed point in the bathroom, I pretend my flesh isn’t tingling and my face isn’t heating with the mere effect of his presence.

Soon enough, the nightgown pools at my feet. His gaze slides down my nakedness as if it’s the first time he’s seen me.

His fingers stroke over my scar and the tattoo, and something in his eyes and the way his lashes flutter against his cheek tells me he knows exactly how I got it.

The weight of his attention on that part of me is like reliving the time when I struggled to move from one corner to the other to get to the pharmacy, buy medicine, and suture the wound.

It was a mess, but I managed to close it. However, when it became worse, not better, I didn’t have someone like him to tend to it, and I was so clueless about self-care back then.

“You closed it yourself.” His thumb slides across the skin with a deceptive tenderness. “You had an infection, too. It must’ve hurt. You must’ve been feverish.”

“H-how do you know that?”

“It’s the same attacker, isn’t it?” His attention drifts from my scar to my face.

The way he’s looking at me, that focus, and the anger that…somehow doesn’t seem to be directed at me, overthrows me.

I push him away and storm to the tub. In my haste to get inside and hide my scar and the tattoo, I slip.

My shriek fills the bathroom, but instead of hitting my head against the edge, I’m held steady by a strong hand.

“Easy.” The tenor of his voice is that of care.

No. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.

I flop under the bubbles, hiding my nakedness from sight. The water is cool on my skin, not too hot and not too cold. It’s the perfect temperature — as usual.

Jonathan is silent as he retrieves the apple-scented shampoo and pours it on my head.

I try to zone out, but the way his fingers glide through my hair in slow, measured strokes robs me of my breath.

He doesn’t even seem bothered by the stubborn knots at the back of my head. Since my hair is long, I always have the hardest time washing it.

Yet he takes his time with the knots, one by one, until my hair falls smoothly to my back. He holds it above the water as he rinses it, then ties it at the top.

Jonathan isn’t the type to show tenderness, so it’s definitely not to be taken for granted when he does.

But now that he’s doing this under these circumstances, I don’t know how to react. Is this a ploy? A game?

He grabs the sponge and uses it to lather my body. He doesn’t linger on my nipples and barely touches me between my legs. His only intent seems to be to bathe me. That’s all. I’m the one who struggles not to close my thighs when his fingers trail down my stomach.

The bath is finished way too soon, and he rinses me, stands me up, then wraps me in a fresh, soft towel.