He reached for the release of the sling. “The wrist?”
“I have a waterproof splint.” She rose and went back to the vanity and pulled out a black swathe of material. “I’m afraid I need more help.”
He rose, set the comb onto the vanity until after the bath, and took off her hard brace and slipped on the stretchy black one.
Bailee stepped toward the tub first, and Bear helped her with a quiet steadiness that felt like reverence. His hands were sure, not trembling now but slow. Always slow. He didn’t rush her. He waited for her cues. Slid the straps from her shoulders, eased fabric down over bandages and bruises, revealing more skin, more of her, inch by inch.
She didn’t flinch.
Not when he saw the full stretch of discoloration across her chest where the harness had held her. Not when his hands skimmed her ribs. Not even when she stood before him fully bare, her arms bruised where her pain lives, but her chin high and her gaze locked on him.
She was still Bailee Thunderhawk.
Still fire.
Still his.
He slipped out of his remaining clothes, eyes never leaving hers. There was no shame between them now. Only need.
She stepped into the tub with a soft hiss at the heat, lowering herself slowly until the water enveloped her. It rose up to her collarbones, glinting off her skin, and the scent of lavender and eucalyptus filled the air, clean, warm, elemental.
Bear followed, silent.
The water wrapped around him as he eased in behind her. She leaned forward so he could settle, and then she came back, gently, between his legs, pressing against his erection, and it took a moment for him to absorb the exquisite pressure of her backside, and her spine along his chest. He wrapped his arms around her like he was meant to hold her this way.
Her head fell back against his shoulder, and she sighed.
That single sound nearly undid him.
He reached for a soft cloth, soaked it, and began to wash her. First her neck. Then her shoulders. Down each arm, his touch lingering, reverent. She hummed low in her throat when he reached her back, when he smoothed water over the bruises that still bloomed along her ribcage like shadowed petals.
“You’re so quiet,” she whispered.
“I’m trying not to cry,” he said against her temple.
She turned slightly, just enough to press a kiss there. Then another against the hollow of his throat. Another to the scar over his heart.
“You don’t have to hold anything in with me,” she said. “Not anymore.”
He didn’t respond with words. Just with his mouth.
He kissed her shoulder. Her jaw. The spot just beneath her ear.
Kisses that weren’t meant to lead anywhere. Just be. Just witness. Just stay.
Then, wordlessly, he shifted her weight with care and leaned her back.
One arm cradled her nape, the other steadied her body as she tilted. Her arms reached behind, bracing on the tops of his thighs. Trusting him to hold her. Trusting the water to catch what he couldn't.
Slowly, he lowered her head into the warmth, wetting her hair. It floated for a moment, ink black silk curling like smoke across the surface, before sinking in ribbons.
He sat up slightly, drawing her back toward him, her eyes fluttering closed as he reached for the shampoo.
Lather bloomed beneath his fingers, his touch gentle, reverent. He massaged her scalp in slow, deep strokes, working the lavender and mint into her hair until the scent bloomed around them. It was clean and wild and sweet, like open prairie wind tangled with sage and heat.
He breathed it in, all the way down.
It felt like home.
