The tears stopped sometime later. They were replaced by full-body shivers. She still hadn’t spoken a word to me. And I was eager to do whatever I could before she regained her voice and tried to kick me out. Without a warning, I gathered her up and carried her into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” Her usually husky voice was a painful rasp.
“You’re shivering,” I said, leaning down to turn on the water to the tub. It was a deep, jetted tub built into a tile surround under a stained glass window.
“N-no, I’m n-not,” she whispered through chattering teeth.
It took two tries before I could put her down. Terrified that she’d run, I didn’t take my eyes off her as I closed the tub drain. She had candles on the tile surrounding the tub. I pulled the lighter out of my pocket and lit them. Still not trusting her to stay, I closed my hand gently around her wrist and pulled her with me as I gathered fluffy, sage-green towels and stacked them next to the tub. She came with me willingly as I pulled her toward the shower where I collected her shampoo, conditioner, and soap.
I arranged the haul and adjusted the water temperature, all with my grip still firm on her.
When I finally turned to face her, she was staring blankly at the water as it poured forth. Tears had carved paths through the filth marring her lovely face. There was no light, no fight in those beautiful green eyes. No emerald flames warning me of my imminent verbal evisceration.
“We need to take off your clothes, Pixie.”
She gave no sign of having heard me, so I saw to it myself. I reached out and dragged the ruined sweater over her head. I sucked in a vicious breath when I saw the bruises already forming on her arms and ribs. Still she made no move to stop me or help. So I continued.
There was a tender vulnerability in the way she let me undress her like she was a doll. As the tub filled, I took my time, peeling away the layers and discarding them until she stood there shaking and naked. Dirt and soot streaked her face, hands, and hair. Bruises painted her ivory skin as if her body was a canvas.
Fury burned inside me. I wouldn’t rest until I knew who was responsible for those bruises and made them pay.
Her beauty was so exquisitely fragile I couldn’t catch my breath.
I’d almost lost her. Really lost her. Not pushed her away, but lost her. I could have already seen her for the last time and not known it. That thought sunk in on a razor-edged moment of clarity.
I could have been standing inside a morgue tonight instead of Sloane’s bathroom because I was a stupid, selfish coward. I hadn’t trusted myself to protect her before. But now I had no other choice.
I nudged her chin up until those green eyes found mine, and I knew. I was never leaving her again. We’d parted ways for the last time. She just didn’t know it yet.
“Ready?” I asked her.
She said nothing, just stared emptily up at me. My chest constricted tighter. Her pain was my pain. And for the first time in my life, I realized what she must have felt at sixteen, her window open, the whispers of my own pain carried to her on the night breeze.
Fuck.
I shut off the water and guided her to sit on the tile next to the tub. When I was certain she was stable, I stripped off my own shirt and pants.
“W-what are you doing?” she asked, each word coming out hesitantly as if she’d forgotten how to say them.
“We’re taking a bath,” I said, removing my underwear and socks and adding them to the pile of clothing I was going to throw away at my earliest convenience. I never wanted to see her ruined pink sweater again. I’d buy her a new one. A dozen new ones. I’d rebuild her library brick by brick, book by book. And I would never let her face danger alone again.
Something loosened in my chest. Something old and rusted. Like an ancient lock finally forced open. Fresh air swept inside, blowing aside the cobwebs, lighting the hearth. She’d always been mine. I was just now accepting that fact. Once something was mine, I never gave it up.
Feeling lighter than I had in years, I swung one leg followed by the other into the tub. “Come on, Pix. I’ve got you.” I hooked her under the arms and lifted her into the water. I lowered us both and stretched my legs out in front of me before settling her against my front, her back to my chest, her head tucked under my chin. Wrapping my arms around her, I leaned back.
I was taking my first-ever bath with a woman. Not just any woman. Sloane.
That looseness in my chest warmed. I was going to have so many firsts with this woman.
We rested like that, in steam and flickering candlelight, as the water warmed us for several long minutes. When she let out a small, broken sigh, I picked up a sponge and a bottle of soap and went to work gently cleaning the soot and dirt from her skin. My beautiful broken girl didn’t help me or fight me. But she did relax against me. She did press her damp face to my neck. And for the first time in my life, I felt like the hero instead of the villain.
I was hard. It was a biological impossibility to not get hard around her, let alone when she was wet and naked against me. But what was happening between us was so much deeper than sex I barely gave my arousal a second thought.
“Here, baby,” I said, my hands moving under the water to cup her hips. I pushed her forward and bent my knees before settling her back against my shins. “Let me wash your hair.”
Sloane said nothing as I worked the tie free. Her hair tumbled down in a silky, thick curtain that hung over my thighs, the ends kissing the water.
I grabbed an empty wineglass next to the tub and filled it with water. “Lean back,” I urged, gathering her hair around my free hand and tugging gently until her head rested on my knees. “Good girl.”
I poured water over those blond tresses and refilled the glass, repeating the process until I was satisfied that her hair was thoroughly wet. Then I went to work, massaging the shampoo into her roots and down the silky lengths. I worked slowly, using my fingers to rub gentle circles against her scalp.
She let out another sigh, and her body loosened as it melted against me. I took my time soaping and rinsing, then repeating the same with her conditioner until every smudge and shadow had been washed clean.
When we were both finally clean, I picked her up out of the cooling water, bundled her in too many towels, and led her into the bedroom. “Stay here,” I ordered, nudging her onto the window seat.
“What are you doing?” she asked sleepily.
“Changing the sheets. Don’t move.”
I found fresh sheets in her closet and made another mental note to contact my organizer in the morning. I’d make room here for me and at my place for her.
I made quick work of changing the bed linens while shooting nervous glances in Sloane’s direction. She wasn’t watching me. She was staring dully down at her feet on the carpet.
As I arranged her legion of pillows in the right formation, I swore whoever was responsible for this would pay. I’d make sure of it.
When the bed was ready, I returned to Sloane and tugged her to her feet. “Time for bed,” I said.
She followed docilely, making me wish she’d put up a fight. Show me a glimpse of the real Sloane Walton.
She paused, staring at the mound of pillows I’d arranged in a U.
“You remembered,” she said softly.
“I remember every second of us.”
39
Who Has the Head Wound
Lucian
Iwoke to a warm, vibrating weight on my chest. It felt comforting. Until the weight shifted and something sharp prodded me in the face.
I opened my eyes and found yellow ones glaring back. The cat apparently had an opinion about me sharing Sloane’s bed. The woman in question was sleeping soundly, her back glued to my side, her head resting in the crook of my arm.