"You're hurting yourself," he says quietly, nodding toward my arms where I've scrubbed the skin raw.
I look down and see he's right. My arms are bright red, almost bleeding in places. I drop the washcloth and watch it fall to the shower floor.
"I can't get clean," I whisper. "I can't…"
He moves then, stepping into the shower fully clothed, water soaking through his expensive shirt and pants. He takes the washcloth from where it fell and gently, so gently, begins washing my arms with careful strokes.
"You're clean," he murmurs. "You're safe. It's over."
But it's not over. It won't be over until my father pays for what he did. Until the Kozlov family is destroyed. Until every person who had a hand in this is dead or broken. At least, that’s what Dimitri said.
Dimitri seems to read my thoughts. "Alexei is recovering. The bullet went through his shoulder, missed anything vital. He'll be back on his feet in a few days."
Relief floods through me. I'd been so focused on my own survival that I hadn't let myself think about what happened to Alexei. "And the others? The Kozlov soldiers?"
"The ones who survived are being questioned." His voice is flat, emotionless. I don't want to know what that questioning entails. "We'll find out who gave the orders, who knew about the cabin, who else is involved."
"My father." The words taste like ash in my mouth.
Dimitri's hands still on my arms. "We'll deal with him."
I know what that means. What it has to mean. My father tried to have me killed. In Dimitri's world, in the Bratva, there's only one response to that kind of betrayal.
Death.
The thought should horrify me, should make me beg Dimitri to show mercy, to find another way. But I can't. Because when I close my eyes, I see my father's face in his study. The cold calculation when he realized I'd found the documents. The way he pressed the chloroform-soaked cloth over my mouth and nose, his voice almost apologetic as he said I'd left him no choice.
He made his choice. Now he'll live with the consequences.
Or die with them.
Dimitri finishes washing my arms and moves to my hair, his fingers gentle as he works shampoo through the tangled strands. The intimacy of the moment is strange, surreal. This man who kills without hesitation, who threatened to destroy an entire family to save me, is now carefully washing my hair like I'm something precious.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the spray of water.
"Why what?"
"Why did you come for me? You could have let them keep me, used it as an excuse to go to war with the Kozlovs. You could have cut your losses and found another way to secure your position."
His hands still in my hair. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then he turns me around to face him, water streaming between us, his green eyes intense.
"Because you're mine," he says simply. "And I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should bother me, should make me angry or afraid. But instead, it makes me feel something other than numb for the first time since the cabin. Something warm and fierce and complicated.
He helps me rinse my hair, then turns off the water. He wraps me in a towel, his movements efficient but gentle, then leaves me to dry off and dress while he changes out of his soaked clothes.
I find a simple black dress in the closet, soft and comfortable. No underwear that fits, so I go without. My hair is still damp when I emerge from the bathroom, but at least I'm clean. At least the blood is gone.
Dimitri is waiting in the bedroom, changed into dry jeans and a black shirt. His hair is damp too. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes more pronounced, but his gaze is sharp as it sweeps over me.
"Better?" he asks.
I nod, though I'm not sure it's true. I'm cleaner, but I don't feel better. I don't know if I'll ever feel better.
He crosses to me and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over the bandage on my wrist. "There's something we need to discuss."
The seriousness in his tone makes my stomach clench. "What?"
