I take off my shirt without ceremony, palms steady.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Okay,” she breathes.
I step in behind her and the water claims us both. It’s warm enough that the chill leaves her shoulders and the tension in her back starts to unknot. I press my palms to her shoulder blades and move them down with slow strokes. The evidence of what she did, of what shehadto do, swirls down the drain in a sea of red and pink.
My hands find bruises,; I trace around them like I’m mapping where she’s been and where she can go next. She leans back into me, cheek to chest, and I can feel the rapid hitch of her breath slow against my collarbone.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” I say. My voice feels absurdly small in the roar of water.
She shakes her head. “It’s okay,” she says. I hear the steel under it—hard won.
I lather soap into my hands and wash her the way I’d wash a sacred thing: gentle, attentive, never hurried. Fingertips along the slope of her shoulders, circling the backs of her arms, down across the ribs where the colors are still angry. When I touch the places she most tries to hide—where shame could live—I touch as if I mean exactly the opposite: reverence, not violation.
She closes her eyes. The muscles along her jaw relax. The small of her back mends against my palms. I run my fingers through her hair like I’m pulling out the night itself; the shampoo smells like citrus and quiet. I don’t rush the rinse. I let the water comb until the suds run clean.
When her hair is rinsed, I don’t move away. Instead I step closer until my chest is against her back and slide my arms around her waist. The shower is a small, wet world and we are the only two bodies that matter in it. I rest my forehead on the crown of her head. I can feel how exhausted she is—how burned out of adrenaline she is—and how tenderly fragile she’s become.
“I want you to see me,” she says into my skin. It’s a whisper, not a demand.
“I’m seeing you,” I promise. “All of you.”
She turns in my arms then, slowly, deliberately, and for the first time she looks at me like I’m an answer. The steam clings to the curve of her lashes; droplets bead at the hollow of her throat. We’re both quiet long enough for the water to do its work—washing, yes, but also baptizing.
She steps back and rests her palms on my chest as if anchoring herself. Then she reaches up and traces my jaw, tracking the line of my mouth. Her fingers are sure, not tentative now. “Touch me,” she says. “Please.”
The way she asks—soft, small, and utterly voluntary—makes something unclench in me. I kiss the inside of her wrist, then the length of her arm, slow and careful. My hands return to her hips, then travel forward to the swell of her breasts. I cup them like I’m holding something precious; no pawing, no rush—just deliberate, warm contact. She sighs, a sound like permission and relief.
“Do you want me inside you?” I ask because I need to know, because consent must be a map we read together.
She nods. “Gently. With me.”
So I move as if I’ve rehearsed this my whole life—slow, measured, aware of every look she gives me.
When she parts her thighs and welcomes me, it’s a quiet surrender. I line myself with her, and the first inch is a study in patience. I press in slowly, the way fingers find a pulse, theway a hand steadies a trembling heart. Her breath catches, then deepens. I look down at her face as I move, make silent eye contact, and she nods in the smallest way.
We move together like two people learning to translate each other, every shallow thrust a question and every response a permission. My hands stay on her hips and shoulders so she always knows where I am, and each time I pull back I watch her eyes—those brimming, honest eyes—so I can feel whether to stay, to push, to rest. There is no need for dominating motions here; the heat we make is slow, tender, reverent. It’s not about erasing what happened to her; it’s about proving she can be held and wanted and safe all at once.
Her hands curl into my hair. She says my name like it’s a prayer. We find a rhythm that keeps her steady, keeps us close. When she comes, it’s not a jagged, violent thing—it’s long and spilling and sacred and I follow her easily over the edge. She collapses into me, limbs loose, and I press my face into her shoulder, tasting her and salt and relief.
An hour later, we're in Vito's office. Elena sits across from his desk looking calmer than I've seen her in days. She's wearing clean clothes—jeans and one of my sweaters that's too big on her. Her hair is still damp.
Vito studies her with an expression I can't quite read. "You killed him."
"I did." No hesitation in her voice.
"How do you feel?"
"Lighter." She meets his eyes. "Like I can finally breathe again."
Vito nods slowly. "Good. He deserved worse than what you gave him but I understand the need for closure."
"It wasn't just closure. It was taking back what he stole." Elena's hands rest calmly in her lap. "My power. My choice. My body."
"And now you're ready to make a decision about Liam's offer."
"I am." She straightens in her chair. "I want to take the deal."
