And yet… here I was, sitting on a goddamn toilet, weak as hell and shaken to the core because someone had closed a door and given me a little space.
I wasn’t going to break.
Iwasn’tgoing to fall apart.
“Hurry the fuck up,” Rio snapped from outside the door, and that broke the feelings of despair and self-hatred at me losing my shit. Then, it was as if my body moved on autopilot. I did what I was told, reaching for the paper, wiping myself with hands that shook too much, biting back a hiss when the stitches in my side pulled tight. I flushed, pressing the button with more force than necessary, as if that might drown out everything I was feeling.
A second later, he was back inside and turned onthe shower over the bath before grabbing a plastic seat I hadn’t even noticed and placing it across the tub as if this was some standard routine.
What the hell was this?
He opened a cupboard, took out a roll of plastic wrap, and crouched in front of me. A furrow of concentration marked his brow as he wound the wrap over the bandages on my side, working methodically, as if this were just another job. His dark brown eyes narrowed, and I caught the faint scent of him—motor oil, burning metal, and pine. Cars and trees, and all things outdoors.
Then, without a word, he scooped me up again. My skin prickled at the sudden shift from warm to cold, and before I could protest, he set me down on the plastic seat inside the tub.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice low but edged with something dangerous.
He twistedthe showerhead in his grip, turning it slowly until a steady stream of water poured out, cascading over my knees. The warmth hit my skin in stark contrast to the cold tile beneath my feet.
“Too hot?” he asked, flicking a glance at me.
I shook my head, lifting a hand and letting thewater run over my fingers. It was warm. Wet. Solid in a way that made everything else seem less… fragile.
“‘S’good,” I managed, my voice hoarse.
He gave a short nod and tugged gently at my shoulder, guiding me forward until the water poured over my head.
Rio picked up a small bottle of shampoo, squeezed some into his palm, and worked it through my long, sweat-matted, tangled hair. He pressed firm and steady against my scalp, practiced and sure, and the heat of the water, the rhythm of his touch, and the sheer, unfamiliar act of being cared for pushed through the cracks in my defenses.
He washed, rinsed, repeated, holding a cloth over my eyes so soap wouldn’t sting. Then, he massaged in thick conditioner, untangling the knots, before reaching for a cloth and lathering up the soap.
He washed what he could reach—my shoulders, my arms, the back of my neck, my legs—quick, efficient strokes. Then, he rinsed the cloth, shoved it into my hands, and gave me a look.
“Balls and ass,” he muttered. “You do it.”
Again, he turned away from me, giving me privacy, and I didn’t know whether to be grateful, angry, or suspicious as hell.
I clutched the cloth, staring at his broad back as ifI could figure him out from the way his muscles flexed beneath his T-shirt.
I cleaned myself quickly, muttering under my breath, hating every second of being naked and vulnerable. “Done,” I said as soon as I was finished.
Rio turned back, gave a brief nod, and reached for the showerhead. He rinsed the conditioner from my hair, then shut off the water. With a practiced flick, he wrapped my long hair in a towel, twisting it into a knot on my head.
Then, in one smooth motion, he scooped me up again—this time into a large towel he wrapped snugly around me, tucking the ends in as if he’d done it a hundred times.
He carried me back to the chair and set me down lightly. He didn’t have to tell me to stay put.
I might’ve been clean, but I was shaking like a kitten in the freaking rain. I stayed still as he pressed the towel to my skin, then placed a T-shirt over my head that was way too big and swamped me, before dragging boxers up my legs. Then, he remade the bed, tidied away medical supplies, and refilled the sippy cup from a bottle of water in the fridge, adding ice and poking the straw back in. He handed it to me before holding out a hand to help me to the bed.
“No bed. I need to talk to Jamie,” I half-pleaded.
“Not now.”
I bristled. “You can’t tell me what to do,” I snarled at him, anger a crack under my skin. “Get Jamie. I need to talk to him. You can’t stop me?—”
Rio clamped a hand over my mouth.
“He’ll be here later,” he said, voice low, steady, final. “Now stand the fuck up and get yourself onto the bed… or do I need to carry you again?
