Clara sat silent, her pulse drumming in her ears. She felt their eyes flick to her now and again, not accusatory, but weighing. Calculating. She was no longer a bystander. She was tangled in this web whether she wanted to be or not.
And yet, through the roaring in her head, she heard Jonas’s steady voice as he leaned in, low enough just for her. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
Her chest tightened, her breath catching as she looked at him. His eyes were fierce, unwavering, and for the first timesince she’d seen her name on those papers, she felt a spark of something steady inside her.
Hope.
Chapter 34
Steam curledthick in the air, clinging to the mirror and running rivulets down the glass. Clara braced her palms against the tiled wall, hot water raining down her back, but it did nothing to wash away the sickness in her stomach.
Her father. Her father.
She tried to breathe, but every inhale burned. Her body shook, not from the heat but from the grief, the disbelief, the guilt she couldn’t keep out no matter how hard she scrubbed at her skin.
Her sobs echoed in the small space, muffled but raw. She pressed her forehead to the tiles and whispered, “Why?”
The door creaked. She startled, dragging a hand across her face, but it was too late. Jonas was already there, stepping into the bathroom, his broad frame filling the doorway. His grey T-shirt clung to him from the damp air, his dark eyes narrowing when they found hers through the misted glass.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. He simply stripped, boots first, then shirt, then jeans, movements efficient, decisive, until he stood bare and unashamed, muscles carved in stark relief by the steam. The door clicked shut behind him.
Then he was inside the shower, the heat swallowed by his presence.
“Jonas.” Her voice cracked, strangled between apology and plea.
His hands closed around her waist, firm, grounding, dragging her back against his chest. “Don’t.” His voice was gravel and smoke, quiet but absolute. “Don’t you carry this.”
Her tears burst fresh, mingling with the spray. “It’s my family, my name,”
“Not you.” His lips pressed to her temple, wet and burning. “Never you.”
She twisted in his arms, the anguish on her face colliding with the intensity in his. Her chest heaved. And then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was nothing like the tender brushes they’d shared. It was hungry, raw, commanding. His tongue swept past her lips, stealing her breath, his hands locking at her hips as though he could anchor her through sheer force. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into hard, wet muscle.
Water pounded around them, but she felt only him, the solid wall of his chest, the heat of his arousal pressing against her stomach, the relentless way he devoured her cries.
“Jonas,” she whispered against his lips, broken, desperate.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped, sliding a hand up her ribcage to palm her breast, thumb circling her nipple until she arched into him. “Fall apart if you need to. I’ll hold you.”
Her body trembled violently as his mouth moved down her throat, sucking, biting just enough to make her whimper. He lifted her effortlessly, pinning her against the slick tiles, spreading her thighs with the breadth of his shoulders as his mouth found her.
Then he was inside her. No fumbling, no hesitation, just a deep, claiming thrust that stole her cry and turned it into a sob.
She wrapped around him, legs tight at his hips, hands clinging to his neck as he drove into her with punishing precision. Every stroke was grounding, brutal and yet laced with something gentler she couldn’t name. His forehead pressed to hers, wet strands of his hair dripping between them, his eyes locked on hers as if daring her to look away.
“You’re not him,” he gritted, every word punctuated by the rhythm of his body slamming into hers. “Not your father. Not Oliver. You’re you. Mine.”
Her climax tore through her before she realised it was coming, shattering her into his arms, the sound of her cry drowned by his mouth devouring hers again. He followed her over, thrusts turning erratic, raw, until he groaned her name like a prayer and emptied himself deep inside her.
When the world stilled, he didn’t let her go. His hands softened, cupping her cheeks, his mouth brushing hers in kisses that were slow now, reverent. He set her down carefully, steadying her trembling legs as though she were something precious.
And then he did something that undid her more than the sex had: he reached for the bottle of shampoo, poured it into his palms, and began to wash her hair. Slow, methodical circles, fingers massaging her scalp until her eyes fluttered closed.
By the time he rinsed her and wrapped her in a towel, her sobs had quieted into hiccups. He carried her into the bedroom, drying her with patience that made her throat ache, before tugging his T-shirt over her head. The visual of seeing her in the shirt he’d just taken off sent red-hot lust through him.
When she finally found her voice, it was a broken whisper. “You don’t understand. Knowing my father…” She choked, eyes burning. “Knowing he worked with the man who hurt you… It makes me sick.”
