The Captain’s Slave part 3 🛁

SEVEN

I kneel by the tub and watch my reflection in the still water. My haunted, exhausted eyes stare back.

I cling to a dry cloth, prepared to serve the new master. I never thought I would miss Gusto, but here I am, wishing I was washing his disgusting body instead of this magnificent warrior’s.

I hear a dragging sound and watch shadows reach into the washroom from underneath the rotting door.

The sounds travel into the slave quarters, and chains clank.

Malik is jailing Gusto in my room. How will I possibly sleep beside him?

The heavy, booted footsteps approach the washroom. I lower my head as I kneel and await instructions.

The male enters and the door rattles against the stone wall. He drops his belt and undoes his boots. His hide pants come off next.

I close my eyes, afraid of what’s unfolding above me. Afraid of capturing even a shadow.

Water trickles as he steps into the bath, not making a sound as he settles into the cold water.

“What is this?”

I peek at his outstretched, wet hand.

“Flower petals? It’s—it’s how Gusto preferred it.”

“That child,” he mutters. “This is unnecessary. And the oil, too. I don’t require such nonsense.”

“Yes, master.”

“My name is Malik. See to it that you address me as such.”

Malik.

Gusto would blow a gasket if I used his given name. It was always Master Gusto or Sir.

Although I must admit that I entertained a few curses under my breath.

“Alright,” I reply, returning my attention to my rag.

It’s time to begin.

I gently dip the cloth into the water, horrified by the contrast between my thin forearm and his giant, tanned shin. He overfills the tub. So much so that he has to hulk his figure, setting his elbows on his knees.

He’s still as I wet the cloth and walk on my knees to reach his back. Our eyes don’t meet, but I know that he’s trailing my every move. We don’t trust each other, even in the midst of such an intimate exchange.

We are strangers. He’s the monster in the sea and I’m the dinghy ship waiting to be swallowed by the waves.

I reach his back. Wide and tattooed. A map that I can’t read. I gently drag the cloth across his skin, surprised by how hot he burns although he’s submerged in cold water.

I scrub gently, not wanting to risk alerting the beast. My pressure becomes more confident with time, and he doesn’t say a word.

He’s so silent, so calculating and deadly, that I find myself missing his voice. It would be less terrifying to hear his rumbling commands than his festering silence. At least then I would know what’s on his mind and prepare for what’s coming.

When I finish with his back, I slide the rag over a shoulder and scrub his chest. There are more tattoos, more scars and muscles that I can’t wrap my mind around. I’ve never encountered a male of such mass and power. He reminds me of a pet I once had. A baby kikalo that wandered into the forest and returned years later a carnivorous beast.

I’m sure Malik was softer once upon a time. But he has wandered the wilderness for too long, lingered too long in war. And he lost some of his humanity along the way.

That’s why I just tread lightly. He can kill me and no one would be outraged because I’m his property. I’m his pet.

I swipe my rag down his abdomen, following the same map I had to use with Gusto.

But with Gusto, bathing was methodical. Boring and platonic. Something tells me it will anything but with this man. Something tells me that something awaits for me underneath the water.

I don’t give much refreshment to the male eye. I’m an unremarkable looking female. Skinny and pale with thin and dry hair. Sulken eyes and damaged nails from my compulsive biting.

But I’m a female. And there’s an imbalance of power between a master and his slave that allows him to do practically anything. That is enough to arouse any man.

I lower the rag some more, but a hand snares around my wrist before my hand can submerge. Freakishly large.

“What are you doing?” He growls, angry. His red eyes narrowed on me.

My heart beats so loudly that I’m sure he can feel my pulse.

“B—bathing you?”

“You are not to touch my cocks, girl.”

Cocks.

I flush from head to toe and break eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

“Retire for the day,” he says, snatching the rag from my limp hand as if I’ve insulted him.

“Shall I prepare your dinner?”

“I have no appetite.”

“Yes, sir.”

I rise and walk out of the washroom with a bowed head. I await for relief that doesn’t arrive. Instead, I find myself feeling slightly disappointed.

I’ve always had an attachment to self-sabotage.

I wanted to touch Malik and have him prove to me that he’s just as I expected. I wanted to see his reaction and make his illusion of a savior crack.

I don’t have anything in this world but my intuition. Being proven right is the only time that I feel a simbiance of power.

Something is wrong with my head. The trauma has made me silently reckless. Gusto didn’t pick up on many of my games, but Malik might. This time, I might finally self-destruct.

I head for the slave quarters as Malik ordered. Unnerved about having to share the room with Gusto.

I enter and find it a mess. Ratty blankets and pillows lay scattered on the floor. Crooked dressers have drawers wide open. No one cares to tidy up as they ran for their freedom.

Gusto is on a bottom bunk, his wrist shackled to the bedpost. This is where Five used to sleep.

His head is partly on a pillow. A comfort he doesn’t deserve after the hell he dragged us through.

I approach him, my footsteps determined. I yank the pillow from under his head—a rare moment of recklessness. He doesn’t wake up, thank the Ancestors.

I drop the pillow on the ground. Satisfied that his neck is now bent at an odd angle.

I fucking hate this cruel man. I’ve never been able to strike him back, but I find pleasure in knowing that he’ll awake with discomfort.

I climb the ladder to the upper bunk on the bed beside a window. For the first time, I lie down without shackling my wrist. My arm feels odd; incomplete. I’m so used to wearing that insufferable chain.

Stomping footsteps make me sit up on the bed.

The door opens and Malik’s furious expression appears. A towel hangs low on his hips, and his hair is wet. He looks even grander without any clothes on.

“What are you doing in here!”

Oh, Ancestors. I screwed up again.

“You told me to retire to my quarters?” I reply, unsure of myself. Did I not hear him correctly?

“Not here!”

I stare at him in disbelief. This is my bedroom. Where else would I rest?

He pulls deep breaths to calm himself down.

“Come down from there and follow me.”

READ PART 4>