“Baby, are you okay?” I whisper, brushing her hair from her face.
She nods, barely. Her eyes flicker open just long enough to calm the beast still clawing inside my chest.
“I want to go home, Chase,” she slurs.
“Whatever you want.”
I stand, lifting her gently in my arms, holding her tight. Her head lolls against my shoulder. As I carry her down the stairwell, there’s no sign of Elliot. Coward probably slithered into some gutter to drown in his own piss.
Albert is out of the car the second he sees us. His face pales at the sight of Violet in my arms, my shirt soaked in blood.
“Jesus—Sir—Is she okay? Do you need a hospital?”
“No,” Violet mumbles. “No hospital. Home.”
Albert just nods and opens the door without another word.
She sleeps the entire ride, her head in my lap as my fingers stroke her hair. As I stare at her, the sense of relief mixes with guilt. I’m the one who dragged her back to New York. This never would have happened if it wasn’t for me.
I carry her through the lobby without stopping, nodding a tight acknowledgement to the doorman who doesn’t ask a single question—just buzzes us through like I’m not wearing a blood-soaked shirt and an unconscious woman in my arms. The elevator’s torturously slow, every floor crawling past while Violet stays quiet in my arms, her breath warm against my neck.
When we reach my apartment door for a second, I hesitate.
Is this what she’d want? To be broughthere, tomyplace, after everything? She might wake up and hate me for it. Maybe I should’ve taken her to their hotel. But then, her fingers bunch against my shirt, right over my heart. A small, tight fist clutches the fabric like an anchor. And she buries her face deeper into my chest with a faint, broken sound.
That’s it.
I unlock the door and carry her straight through.
It’s safer here. I know that. She’s not going anywhere until she sobers up, and I’m going to make sure she’s okay with my own damn eyes.
My jaw locks as I carry her toward the bathroom. She smells like tequila and his blood. I can’t stand it—the scent of him clinging to her skin. I need it gone.
Gently, I set her down on the edge of the tub and turn on the tap, adjusting the water temperature until it’s just right. She sways slightly, so I kneel in front of her and start undoing the buttons of her blouse.
“I’m just going to help, okay?” I murmur.
She doesn’t say anything, just blinks slowly. Her eyes are unfocused, lips parted like she’s floating somewhere between sleep and awareness.
I ease her out of her clothes one piece at a time, trying to keep my touch clinical—but it’s not easy. Not with her bare skin brushing mine, not with every breath she takes, making something coil low and tight in my gut.
When I guide her into the bath, she sinks back like she hasn’t got the strength to hold herself up. I try to wash her hair, her shoulders, but she keeps slipping under, head lolled back like a doll.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
There’s no way to do this properly unless—
I sigh, yank off my shirt, and step into the tub behind her, pants and all.
She slumps against me the second I sit down, her bare back flush to my chest, her head resting under my jaw. I wrap one arm around her middle to hold her in place and pick up the sponge with the other.
Her skin is warm and slick under my touch as I trail the sponge down her arms, over her collarbone, across the soft curve of her stomach. I sandwich her between my thighs as I wash her hair, resisting the urge to run my lips along the curve of her neck. Every brush of contact sends a jolt straight to the pit of my stomach. I try to ignore the way her body fits mine; the heat flooding my bloodstream just from her scent.
She stirs, like she’s coming back to herself, when I use the showerhead to wash the soap from her hair. Her hand slips behind her to touch my thigh. Slowly, she turns, straddling me, shifting in the water until small waves ripple along the surface.
“Violet...”
Her eyes find mine—clearer now, but muted. She trails her hand along my chest, her finger brushing my lips. She winds her hands around my neck and grinds ever so softly. I groan, trying to summon every passion killer I can envisage. Cold showers. Tax returns. My great aunt Lucia. But clearly, my stubborn dick doesn’t get the memo. He’s at full attention—loaded, cocked, and begging for orders. Her lips part, and she leans in. For a blissful heartbeat, I give in. Her mouth meets mine in a desperate, hungry kiss. She tastes like tequila and heat and every goddamn thing I’ve ever wanted.
