Silva

Chapter Twenty-One

• Irisa •

—

He has a massive bathroom with a switchable glass shower stall, a ginormous bathtub, and a freakishly clear mirror.

Silva's wealth is immeasurable, and I almost feel guilty about staining the marble floor with my dirty clothes.

That's not the most pressing problem. Silva is also in the bathroom with me, insisting that he will stand there until I come out from behind the opaque glass.

We're supposed to talk, but I'm using the shower as an excuse to dodge him.

Silva's irked. He's going to break the glass if I stay in here any longer.

"Can I get dressed first?" I shout over the glass.

"I'm not stopping you," he says collectedly.

"In private," I mumble, and I know he can hear me.

"I can't see you."

I don't like how calm he is as if seeing me naked doesn't bother him. I want a sense of dignity, especially in the bathroom where I shouldn't feel abashed to be naked.

I huff, riled. The towel rips from my body and tosses to the side sulkily. Hot air brush my bare skin as I reach over for the matching set of underwear and bra.

He said it's a gift with the most shameless expression I've ever seen on him, and his handsome face is stoic half the time.

Other than the times when he's constantly annoyed with me. Those are the moments when I assume he was going to eat me.

I pick up the other piece, and it's silky lingerie.

I should've asked him to take me home where I can wear comfortable clothing and have a good night of sleep.

The slight change in color on the opaque glass startles me, forcing me to throw the lingerie over my head and fumble with the arm placements.

I've never worn these things before. I manage to understand the complicated strings just in time to drop the frilly bottom over my ass when the glass opens.

Slapping a hand over my eyes, I turn my head to the side. I want to look, but I can't.

His muscled torso is marked with sophisticated ink, spiraling in haunting ways that makes my fingers want to trace the patterns.

The waistband of his pants hangs low on his grooved hips. Any lower and it's going to show something neither of us wants to see.

Who am I kidding?

Of course, I want to see—

He rips my hand away from my face and tugs me out of the stall without a word. Noises lodge in my throat as his taut back ripples with thick muscles, hooking my attention with the ink seeping into the hard lines.

I stumble after him while he takes me out of the bathroom, but his master bedroom isn't doing any better at settling the drop in my stomach.

He stops at the foot of the bed, spins around, and glares irritably into my eyes. Reflexively, my shoulders draw up to shield his gaze from my vulnerable neck.

Forget the see-through lingerie, my neck muscles still throb from the last time he bit me. I was in pain; I didn't like the infuriating itchiness when it was healing.

"Irisa," he utters, a growl resonating through his thick chest.

I turn away, avoiding the weak tremor in my knees as the room's coldness kisses my sensitive limbs.