Makari catches me without effort. His arms close around me, one hand braced between my shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of my head, pressing my face into the hard plane of his chest as if he can physically hold me together. I shake violently; the tremors rip through me now that I don’t have to be strong anymore, and I hate how small it makes me feel even as I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady against my hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I nod because words feel impossible. My throat burns, and my chest aches, and my eyes won’t stop spilling over. He stays exactly where he is, unmoving and solid, letting me cry it out against him without asking for anything in return. The room is dim, the early morning light just beginning to edge its waythrough the windows, and the quiet is profound in a way that feels almost sacred.
Eventually, the shaking eases. My breathing evens out. The world stops tilting. But I can still smell the iron scent of blood on both of us, and dirt.
Makari tilts his head down, his lips brushing my temple in a gesture so gentle it nearly makes my knees shake. “Let me take care of you,” he says softly.
What more could he possibly do for me than what he’s already done?
I pull back just enough to look at him, really look at him, and the sight steals what little breath I’ve recovered. He’s bruised and scraped, dried blood dark against his skin, a cut blooming angry and red along his jawline. One of his eyes is rimmed with shadow. He looks like a man who walked through hell and came back carrying pieces of it with him. But he won against whatever he found there.
“You’re hurt,” I say, my voice rough with tears. I reach up without thinking, my fingers hovering near his face before touching down lightly against his cheek. He stills at the contact, his nostrils flaring as my thumb brushes the cut at his jaw.
“So are you,” he replies, his gaze dropping to my face. His fingers come up, careful as if I might shatter, tracing the line of my chin where I can feel there’s already a bruise forming. The skin there throbs with warmth, as my right knee and hip. His jaw tightens. “He touched you.”
His fury is somehow both terrifying and comforting.
“I’m okay,” I say, though it feels inadequate. “I’m here.”
“That’s the only thing that matters,” he says.
Makari doesn’t ask. He simply begins to undress me, his movements deliberate and gentle, as if he’s unwrapping a gift instead of peeling dirt and fear-soaked clothes from my body. Ihelp where I can, my hands clumsy and tired, until we’re both standing there stripped down to skin and scars and exhaustion.
He studies me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken, his eyes tracking every bruise, every mark, his hands following his gaze as if committing me to memory all over again. When his fingers skim the tender places, I hiss softly, and he immediately stills.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispers.
“It all hurts,” I admit, trying to smile through it. “But I don’t want you to stop.”
Something softens in his expression. He takes my hand and leads me toward the bathroom, turning on the shower and testing the water before guiding me under it. I stand with my head bowed, water spraying off my shoulders and neck, as he undresses skillfully just outside the glass doors. It’s as if he’s done this a thousand times; scrubbed blood and dirt off before washing himself clean. Maybe he has. And then with a careful step, he’s next to me.
The warmth cascades over us, steam rising, washing away the last clinging traces of terror.
He cleans me like it’s a ritual. His hands are steady, his touch reverent, and when I lean into him he adjusts without comment, bracing me, supporting my weight as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Despite the exhaustion and heavy eyelids, I feel balanced. The way a magnet does when it meets its mate. I return the care where I can, my fingers mapping the bruises on his ribs, the scrape along his shoulder, the places where he sucks in a sharp breath despite himself.
“You scare me,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his chest as the water beats down around us.
His arms come around me immediately. “I know.”
“I don’t mean because you’re dangerous,” I blurt. “I mean, because I could lose you.”
He goes very still.
The words seem to hang between us, heavy and fragile, and for a moment I’m afraid I’ve said too much, that I’ve cracked something open he’s been carefully keeping sealed. Then, his chin rests against the top of my head, his breath warm against my hair.
“I almost lost you,” he says quietly. “That’s the only thing I can’t survive.”
The admission has me pulling back enough to look at him, my hands sliding up his arms, my heart pounding. “Mak.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice low, intent.
“I love you.”
The words feel inevitable, like they’ve been waiting for the right moment to surface, and now that they’re out I don’t regret them for a second. His breath catches audibly. His eyes search my face like he’s looking for the truth of it written there, and whatever he sees makes his expression shift into something raw and unguarded.
“I love you too,” he says, the words rough. Finally, some emotion shows through the walls he’s built up over years of violence.
