Mabel Shot Part 4

"Come on, I don’t like being repetitive!" he says seriously, stepping back and sitting down, pointing to the table. "Eat!"

I feel like an idiot when my face returns to him, and I see him serious, staring at my breast. A mischievous look reflects on his face as he stares at me. I lower my face and watch the erect nipples of my breasts becoming visible through the thin fabric of the nightgown.

"I hope you’re hungry because I’m starving." He smiles and winks at me, pushing the empty chair closer to his leg with his foot.

"I'm not hungry..." I shake my head and look at his hand on the table, seeing the nerves of the joints in his fingers all red with cuts scattered across his hand, with dried blood shining on it. A large straight cut stands out among the small ones. "You’re hurt, sir."

I step forward and take his hand between mine, seeing the cuts on the skin of his hand.

"It’s not the first time I’ve punched glass, Mabel," he replies quickly.

I remember the sound of the driver’s side window shattering. He used his hand to punch the window, which is why he has so many small cuts scattered on the back of his skin. The glass must have injured him.

"You need to clean that or it could get infected." I release his fingers on the table and hurriedly walk to the bathroom.

"I gave you an order!" I hear his angry voice speak loudly.

"And I said I’m not hungry," I reply and enter the bathroom, opening the cleaning cupboard drawer and grabbing a small pink pouch where I keep gauze, saline, and a box of Band-Aids.

I open the second drawer, where there’s a small bottle of alcohol, and pick it up in my hand, using my thigh to close the drawers. I avoid looking at his face when I return to the kitchen, grab a clean dish towel from the drawer, and wet it at the sink faucet, wringing it out.

"I thought the part where you obey me when I give you an order was clear between us..." he hisses softly.

I turn and throw the wrung dish towel over my shoulder, looking at his face studying me, with that damn eyebrow raised in a charming way that makes me want to sigh. I hold back my sigh and refuse to let him know I like that about him, walking determinedly in his direction and confronting him.

"Inside the erotic dungeon!" I retort, leaving the bottle of alcohol and my pouch on the table.

"Are you challenging me?" He wrinkles his nose and keeps his eyes on me as I open the pouch and take out the gauze and saline. "Wait, you named my playroom, little bird?"

"Maybe..." I say without much courage, giving him a quick glance from the corners of my eyes and holding back a laugh. "And yes, I named that sadistic dungeon, which has nothing of a playroom."

I take a step back and turn to face him, becoming even more ridiculously enchanted by his raised eyebrow. I lean my knee forward and flex my legs until they touch the floor. My knees stay together as I separate my calves and sit on the floor, with my back straight and my fingers spread on my thighs. I raise my face to him and try to keep my cowardly smile on my face to resist the charm of his shameless face. But it’s not the sexy raised eyebrow waiting for me, but rather his furrowed brow, with his expression completely dark, looking at me strangely. His chest puffs strongly forward, his mouth clenched as he inhales air through his nose, which flares. The white shirt becomes tighter on his skin, giving the impression that the fabric won’t withstand the way his chest expands forward. The veins in his arms become more visible, as does the one pulsing in his throat, showing me that his heartbeat is racing. "What’s wrong?" I ask, startled, not understanding why he’s acting this way.

I blink, confused, and see him stiffening his whole body, breathing deeper and darkening his gaze, just like I saw when he was outside the car, punching Boris in the face.

"I’m sorry if I offended your playroom, sir," I murmur quickly, feeling anxious and lowering my eyes to my hands on my leg, not understanding why he’s angry. "I just... I just said what I thought when I saw it; it was a joke. And about the orders, I understood what you proposed to me, but in my view, that would be a metaphorical thing, right?!" I say, more anxious, unable to control my voice as I hear his breathing becoming heavier. "I didn’t think you’d still be giving me orders if we were outside of it... and that’s something that..."

I get startled when his hand moves quickly and grips my chin, making me quiet and lift my head to him, not allowing me to divert my eyes from his.

"Who taught you to sit like that?" he asks seriously, making me even more bewildered.

"How?" I bite the corner of my mouth, not quite sure if I understood his question.

"Who taught you to sit in that position, Mabel?" he repeats the question, letting me know I heard his first question correctly.

"I’ve always sat like this, sir," I murmur to him, looking at my legs as he releases my face and rubs his hands on his thighs. "I’ve been sitting like this since I can remember." I pull the cloth from my shoulder and crush it in my fingers, not understanding why the posture I sat in made him agitated. "I can clean your wounds... If you think it’s strange for me to sit on the floor, I can sit in the chair without any problem; I just sit like this because I feel comfortable."

"No, stay where you are." He changes his tone of voice, which is hoarse and low, just like it was in his dungeon when he took me to the table.

His eyes are shining intensely, and he doesn’t divert them from me, sitting on the floor in front of his legs.

"Okay..." I hiss shamefully and feel my cheeks warm from the way he’s looking at me.

I slowly stretch my arm and infiltrate my fingers gently under his hand, watching my fingers disappear beneath his large, injured bear paw. I bring the cloth to it, cleaning it carefully, keeping my eyes focused on the wounds and removing the dried blood.

"Who raised you, Mabel?" he asks seriously, making me lift my eyes to his, seeing them curious, observing me intensely.

"My adoptive mother, sir," I calmly reply, returning to clean his wounds. "I lived in an orphanage until I was twelve, when I was adopted by a philanthropic couple who couldn’t have children."

"Did you become fluent in Russian by learning to talk to one of them, or did you take classes with teachers?" He leans his body forward, making me feel his breath on the top of my head.