Their Little Girl

Chapter Eight

Micah's clenched fist slowly unfurled, revealing a small tube of ointment resting in his palm. I couldn't believe it; all this time, I thought his anger was directed at me, but it was concern that had tightened his grip. He looked at my burns with a heavy sigh, and I could see the shift in his demeanor.

Karl, who had been watching the whole scene unfold, now looked on with concern. His earlier amusement had faded, replaced by the redness of embarrassment on his cheeks. It was a strange solidarity, all of us blushing for different reasons.

"Posso io?" Micah's voice was gentle as he asked for permission to apply the ointment. Despite the fuzziness clouding my thoughts, I nodded. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as he treated the reddened skin. ("May I?")

But then he sighed again, a deep, frustrated sound, and ran a hand over his face. "Probabilmente dovresti farlo da solo," he said, and before I could voice any protest, he added softly, "Rimettiti la maglietta." ("You should probably do this yourself.") ("Put your shirt back on.")

I complied, feeling the fabric cover my skin once more. As soon as I was decent, Micah pressed a button, and the elevator resumed its journey. I let out a sigh of annoyance. These jerks, with their confusing actions and cryptic words, were really getting on my nerves!

The elevator lurched to a stop, and the doors slid open, revealing the conference room. Here we go again, I thought, bracing myself for another round of their suffocating closeness. As we stepped out, our shoulders brushed, and I felt a wave of claustrophobia wash over me. These guys really didn't understand personal space.

"Here," Micah said, his voice a little too close for comfort. He placed his hand on my shoulder, his touch oddly warm and firm. "Prendi questo. Fallo in bagno. C'è una nuova maglietta che ti aspetta." He gestured towards a small tube of ointment resting in his palm. ("Take this. Do it in the bathroom. There's a new shirt waiting for you.")

"No, sto bene, signore," I mumbled, trying to pull away from his touch. ("No, I'm good, sir.")

His grip tightened slightly, and his voice dropped to a low growl. "Non rifiutare, ragazzina. Sono stato chiaro?" ("Don't decline, little girl. Do I make myself clear?")

I shivered. His gaze, intense and unsettling, was fixed on me. "Oppure è necessaria una punizione, eh?" ("Or a punishment is needed, hmm?")

I bit my lower lip, feeling my face burn with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. I knew I should be furious, but the way he looked at me, the way he held me, it was like a strange, twisted power play that left me feeling strangely helpless.

Before I could even muster a response, another hand landed on my waist. Karl leaned down, his breath warm on my ear. "Per favore obbedisci a mio fratello, ragazzina. Non vuoi la sua punizione, vero?" ("Please obey my brother, little girl. You don't want his punishment, do you?")

I nodded, my head spinning. I was trapped, literally and figuratively. These men, my bosses, were playing a dangerous game, and I was the pawn. I knew I should fight back, but my voice seemed to have deserted me. I just wanted to disappear, to escape this suffocating situation.

My face was burning, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I was sure I was a bright shade of crimson, thanks to these two crazy, cruel, and frankly, jerk of a bosses!

I immediately straightened my back, closed the bathroom door, and did what I was told. I quickly applied the ointment, trying to ignore the sting of my burns and the way my hands trembled. Before I knew it, I was panicking. There was only one minute left until the meeting started!