“Get to bed. I’m going to go jack off in the shower.”
No need to tell her twice, she scampered from the floor and dove under the covers. She heard the water running and knew she’d never fall asleep.
But he took forever. And it had been a long day. Long months. A long six years.
Her eyes closed. And when she woke, she slipped from under the covers, the man snoring on the couch awake the instant her foot hit the ground.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Hand to the latch, not quite awake but very eager to be gone, she turned her head to see if she’d left an item in the room.
And then he was there, his hand on her hand, pulling her touch from the latch. Slowly turning her until her back hit the panel.
As close to her as he had been when they wrestled on the floor. As close as they would have been had he actually fucked her against the wall.
Then he took her chin to inspect the light bruise on her cheek. Eugenia found she could not meet his eyes, though she felt his silent demand she do so.
When he won—she the coward and he the clear victor—softly, he said, “There’s no blood on your dress.”
“Maybe you’re not as big as you think you are.” She wasn’t even trying to banter; she just wanted out of the room and in the safety of her own.
“I am.”
“Listen. I have chores—”
“Turn around. Trust me.”
She’d trust a venomous snake before she trusted the slaver, but still, she turned, felt the weight of his body press her to the door. As if he needed a moment to collect himself.
As if he enjoyed the feel of her.
And then he lifted her skirt before she might stop him. And spit. Rubbing it into her thigh with the fabric.
While she tried to stop her heart from racing.
While she could feel him reach into his trousers and rub himself. While he worked his shaft and groaned against her neck. The sharp sting when his lips locked on her throat and he sucked hard enough to leave a mark. The vulgar sound he made when he came on the backs of her thighs.
And once again rubbed his fluids clean with her skirt.
Breathless, he spun her around before her hand might find the knob, caught the look in her eyes. “One more thing.”
Hooking her bodice, he tore, buttons flying until heaving cleavage was on display. Eugenia pressing so hard against the door she might as well have merged atoms with the wood.
Taking in his work, he sighed. “Now they will believe it. Go to breakfast just like this. Wear the dress all day. Say it was punishment for scratching.”
This was so much more than just spreading a rumor. This was a public shaming.
“Don’t cry. It’s not real, remember?”
But it felt real, and her eyes did sting. Because her pride ha
d always been on the large side, and this was humiliating.
Chapter Eight
The captain was right, she didn’t need to tell their concocted story. One look at her semen-stained dress, at the spot of blood where he must have bitten himself before he spit, at the torn bodice and her exposed cleavage...
One look told it all.