He ran the water hot, added something that smelled like eucalyptus and possibility. I undressed mechanically, the borrowed clothes joining the pile of evidence to be burned. When I stepped into the tub, the water immediately tinged pink from blood I'd missed.
"I'll wash you," he offered, and I nodded, beyond deciding anything for myself.
His hands were gentle but thorough, cleaning blood from places I couldn't see. Behind my ears, between my shoulders, the small of my back. Clinical care delivered with devastating tenderness.
"The taser burns on that girl's neck," I said eventually. "They'll scar."
"Probably."
"She'll carry marks from her freedom the same way I carry marks from my captivity."
"Scars fade." He worked shampoo through my hair, fingers massaging my scalp. "And even when they don't, we learn to live with them."
"I became him tonight. For those minutes in the office, planning the angle of the cut, waiting for the perfect moment..." I closed my eyes. "I was him."
"You were you, using skills he forced on you for purposes he never intended." Water sluiced over my head, washing away suds and the lingering smell of others' fear. "That's not becoming him. That's overcoming him."
"Semantics."
"Truth." His hands stilled on my shoulders. "Do you want to forget for a few minutes?"
I opened my eyes, found him watching me with careful concern. "What?"
"Tonight was necessary but brutal. You did what had to be done, saved who needed saving. But now you're safe, you're clean, and you're carrying too much." His thumb traced my collarbone. "Do you want to forget for a few minutes? Just... feel something else?"
"I don't know if I can."
"That's not what I asked."
Want. Such a complicated word for someone trained to suppress it. But in the warm water, with gentle hands offering comfort without demanding it, want seemed possible.
"Yes," I whispered.
His hand slipped beneath the water, movements slow enough I could stop him at any point. I didn't. When hisfingers found me, I was already responding, body remembering pleasure was possible even when the mind struggled.
"Just feel," he murmured against my temple. "No thinking. No analyzing. Just this."
I let my head fall against his shoulder, let him carry the weight of decision. His fingers moved with careful precision, reading my responses, adjusting pressure and pace. This wasn't about desire or passion. This was about grounding, about proving I could feel something beyond necessary violence.
When the first wave of sensation built, I tensed, fighting it from habit.
"It's okay," he breathed. "You're allowed to feel good. Even after—especially after."
His free hand stroked my hair, gentle counterpoint to the insistent rhythm below. The contrast undid me. Pleasure and comfort, intensity and safety. I came with a broken sound, body shuddering as my rigid control finally cracked.
"There you go," he murmured, holding me through the aftershocks. "Just feel it. All of it."
Tears mixed with bathwater, but they felt different from the ones I'd shed before. Cleaner somehow. Like rainwater after a storm.
"Seventeen women," I said when I could speak again.
"Seventeen women," he agreed.
"I'll do it again."
"I know."
"The killing. The blood. All of it."
