And now it’s just him and me.
Ten seconds. That’s all I give him.
Ten seconds of watching Elias Mercer stand there in the middle of the room like the storm followed him inside—dripping, shaking, eyes glassed over with something not even here. He’s not in this inn. He’s not in his body. He’s back on that plane, in the freefall, lungs closing like a trap.
I can’t have that.
“Strip.”
It cuts the air clean. My voice. My order.
His head snaps toward me, hair flinging droplets across his face. His eyes go wide, green blown bright under the dim bulb swinging from the ceiling. “What?”
“You heard me.” My tone doesn’t shift. “Strip.”
The word lands like a slap. His shoulders jolt, his mouth opens, shuts. He sways on his feet like he’s balancing between running and falling at my boots.
“Now.”
That does it. His body moves before his head can catch up. Fingers fumbling at his soaked hoodie, tugging it over his curls with a wet slap, water spattering the warped floorboards. His shirt follows—plastered to his chest, tugged up to reveal bruises still shadowing his ribs, tape half peeling at the edges. His jeans cling like a second skin, heavy with rain, peeled down slow, leaving his legs bare and pale under the flickering light. Socks sodden, clumped.
And then his briefs.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. Just pushes them down, lets them slap wet to the floor with everything else.
And there he is.
Naked. Steam rising faint off his skin, chest streaked with bruises, water trailing over every line of him. He doesn’t cover himself. Doesn’t look ashamed. He just stands there, breathing harder now, waiting for whatever comes next.
I shouldn’t look. I’ve seen him bare in the locker room, steam and chaos and laughter to cover it. That’s different. This is quiet. Private. My order. His obedience.
And it’s hell.
My eyes betray me. They drag lower, trace the lines of him, the bruises, the sharp jut of bone under wet skin. He’stwenty, still wiry, still growing into himself. But his eyes are fire, and his body—Christ. He’s wrecked and radiant at once.
My jaw locks until it aches. My fists curl until the tape bites.
“Shower.”
He blinks. “What—”
“Hot. Now. Before you catch a cold.”
Relief flickers across his face. Or maybe it’s something sharper—something too close to a grin. He moves, still bare, still dripping, not even bothering to hide himself as he strides past me to the bathroom.
The door doesn’t close all the way.
Steam hisses out almost instantly, curling into the cold, damp room. The pipes groan like ghosts in the walls. And then I hear him—his breath breaking under the spray, a low sound caught between a gasp and a groan.
I drop onto the edge of the bed, drag a hand through my wet hair, and stare at the warped floorboards like they can keep me sane.
I’ve seen him naked before. Locker room, showers, chaos. But this is different. He stripped because I told him to. He’s naked because I ordered it. And my pulse hasn’t steadied since.
Christ help me.
The hiss of the shower fills the room, steam curling out in pale ribbons. I sit there a long minute, listening to it. Listening to him. His breath breaks against tile, his body crashing through the spray like he’s trying to wash off the panic, the flight, the storm.
My own clothes are clinging to me like a second skin. Cold. Heavy. The smell of rain and mildew clings to everything. So I move.
