I should do this more often.

My ensuite bathroom at home has a shower, so I hardly ever take baths. Even here at the cabin, I’ve been showering upstairs every evening out of habit, totally ignoring the beautiful porcelain clawfoot tub in the downstairs bathroom.

I hold my champagne glass in the air, admiring the way the warm candlelight glints off the bubbling golden liquid.

The boys looked mildly shocked earlier when I passed on supper and instead took a crystal champagne flute out of the cupboard. I half filled the glass with sparkling champers, then reconsidered and filled it to the very brim. Ben and Alastaire were thrilled – they’ve been trying to get me to drink with them for weeks now. They weren’t as thrilled when I said I was drinking it alone, in the bathtub, and I was locking the door behind me to keep out any unwanted visitors.

The fruity bubbles sparkle on my tongue as I take a sip, sinking back deeper into the cashmere water and its coating of scented white foam.

Kitty left a small vial of ridiculously expensive bubble bath waiting for me. She bought it earlier today during our shopping trip, and I literally felt physically ill when I saw the price tag on it. Over three hundred dollars for a tiny glass container. It might as well be liquid gold.

The shop assistant explained that it’s a unique concoction of blue lotus flower, Egyptian oil, tuberose, frankincense and over ten thousand jasmine flowers harvested at twilight in Grasse, France.

It sounded like a BS sales pitch to me, but Kitty bought it immediately, despite my protests.

She probably left the vial here for me just to make a point. I hate to admit it, but this stuff is amazing.

Just one single drop sent a cloud of otherworldly fragrance snaking through the air, utterly intoxicating. The effect was so powerful, so sudden, that it reminded me of scenes in movies or books where the witch carefully adds a single drop of something to her potion, and the entire thing changes color before exploding in a puff of smoke.

I hum to myself as I lather the sweetly scented foam over my body, flinching as my fingers touch the tender spot over the scar on my ribcage. Oddly enough, the bath foam almost seems to soothe the angry purple bruise. There’s a faint fizzing sensation, then a marked numbness. Could it be the jasmine?

Still not worth three hundred dollars. But I’ll admit, it’s pretty magical.

Magical.

I mentally banish the thoughts of angels and ghosts and fairy tales which are crawling around the edges of my mind. All this strange stuff keeps on happening to me, but the only rational explanation is that they’re hallucinations and delusions bought on my the stress of the accident, and the events of recent weeks.

I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get over everything, but that doesn’t matter.

It’s in the future.

As are any decisions I’ll have to make around record labels and the band and a career in music.

Everything Elliot said was really thought-provoking, but now’s not the time to think about it. All of that can wait.

Right now, my whole world is this small, darkened bathroom, the bubble-filled tub and the ring of candlelight.

That is, until I hear the door creak open.

Before I even have time to register what’s going on, Felix has closed the door behind him and is standing at the edge of the bath tub.

I hold back a scream, and reflexively reach up to cover myself, before realizing that everything’s hidden by the mountain of white bath bubbles anyway.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Kitty, you and your billionaire’s bath soak are a godsend.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” I ask, aware that my voice is strained and shaking with anger.

He cuts a ghostly shape through the candlelight, leaning over the edge of the bath, his moonlight-pale face and dark hair half hidden in the shadows.

“Show it to me,” he says.

What the… what?

“Show what to you?” I practically spit at him.

“Your scar. The bruising. Where the serpent entered you,” he says, leaning closer. “I know it’s getting worse. Show it to me.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” I say, wondering how he knows about the painful purple bruise. “Just leave! If you don’t, I’ll…” I think for a moment “… I’ll scream.”

“No you won’t,” he says.

“Leave,” I repeat.

“Not until you show me,” he says.

There’s a folded bath towel on the chair next to the tub, just behind me. If I can reach it…

“Fine, then I’ll leave,” I say. I snake one arm out of the tub, careful to keep my body hidden beneath the bubbles. I feel the soft cotton of the towel beneath my fingers, and I grab it. Using both hands, in one swift movement I jump to my feet in the bath, holding the towel up in front of me, sending a splash of foamy water sloshing into the air.

The towel’s drenched, but at least I protected my modesty. Felix didn’t see a thing.

I wrap the wet towel around myself, avoiding Felix’s eyes as I step out of the tub.

But as my feet touch the bathmat, I'm flung back to the other side of the bathroom by some invisible force, pinned down by Felix with my back against the wall.

I’m so shocked that I don’t even react as he unclasps my shaking fingers from their tight grip on the towel. He peels the damp, clinging fabric away, and it falls down at my feet. We’re outside the circle of light cast by the candles next to the bath, but the darkness doesn’t help.

My breathing hitches as Felix slides a hand below my left breast, fingers brushing the throbbing bruise on my ribcage.

His fingertips are cool, but his breath against my neck is hot.

“Does that hurt?” He asks, brushing his fingers lightly over the bruise.

I shake my head, before remembering that it’s pitch black and he can’t see me.

But before I can say a thing he presses his fingers gently into the bruise.

“And now?” He says.

“No,” I whisper, flinching at the stinging pain beneath his fingertips.

“Liar,” he whispers into my ear.

He bends deeper over me, and his lips brush against my neck, leaving a trail of soft, fleeting kisses all the way to my collarbone.

“What are you doing?” I say, my voice barely even a whisper.

“If you don’t like it, tell me to stop,” he says.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want him to stop, not really – but I don’t know if I want him to carry on either. I don’t know where this might lead to, and whether I’m ready for that.

I try to move but it’s like I’m frozen in place, an ice sculpture slowly melting under the heat of his smoldering touch.

His lips lock onto the soft skin just above my collarbone, kissing me with a gentle, insistent pressure. The force of his kiss increases, and he sucks harder, hungrily, his breathing suddenly heavy as he holds me down. I feel pain searing through my shoulder.

In that moment, I come to my senses. I swipe my hands out of his grasp and push him away with all my strength. He steps backwards, and I raise my hand into the air.

Even in the pitch dark, I hit my mark.

SLAP.

My hand connects with his cheek, so hard I can feel my fingers stinging afterwards.

I reach down and gather the towel around me, before marching out of the bathroom.

As I fling open the door and the light from the hallway floods into the room, I notice the key.

It’s on the inside of the door.

So the bathroom door was locked.

How in the hell did Felix get in?

What the hell is going on?

Head held high, I stride into the living room wearing only the damp towel, ignoring Ben’s wolf whistles as I head to the wrought iron spiral staircase in the room’s corner. I wind my way to the cabin’s upstairs as quickly as possible, and slam my bedroom door shut.

I lock it behind me, for good measure, even though I know now that it’s pointless.

Without even turning on the light, I throw down the towel and slip into bed.

I stroke my fingers over the sore spot above my collarbone. I feel broken skin, and a bruise forming. I should probably look at it in the mirror, try cover it up or something, check if it's bleeding. But right now, the last thing I want to do is look at it.

A memory flashes into my mind. Last summer, when Jamie was going out with Dean Turner. The small, dark bruises he left on her neck, which she called love bites, and which Grace called hickeys, even though Jamie hates that word. Grace said Dean was marking his territory, trying to keep away other guys – which was pretty insulting, considering that he was fooling around with at least three other girls throughout the doomed relationship.

Is that what this was? Felix marking me as his?

I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight. I just know it. Not after that just happened. Probably not safe to pass out now, anyway. Who knows what he might try if I let my guard down. Tomorrow I’ll have to tell him I’m not interested, and I want to keep things strictly business between us. But until then, I have to keep my wits about me. Stay awake.

I close my eyes, and fall straight to sleep.