My body wakes. Heat rolls through me, heavy and demanding. My hand slides under his hoodie, feeling the line of his back and the tension in his muscles. I try to pull him closer, but pain spikes in my ribs. It’s a sharp, white reminder that I am still broken.
He pulls back, his eyes narrowing. “Viktor, stop. Your heart is racing too fast. It can't take this yet, and your ribs are barely holding.”
“Let it stop, then,” I growl. “If it’s going to fail, I want it to happen while I’m touching you.”
He stares at me, caught between logic and the pull of the bed. Then he surrenders. He doesn't move away. He moves over me, careful, shielding my chest with his arms as he settles between my legs. It’s not a rough fuck. It’s slow. He moves with focus, watching my face for the moment the pleasure turns to pain.
I let him lead. I have to. My body is a wreck, but the friction of him is the only thing making me feel like a living man. Everythrust pulls at my stitches. He moans into my neck, a sound of relief. I grip his hips, my thumbs digging into the bone, anchoring myself.
When I come, my vision goes white. My heart slams against my ribs, irregular and loud. Jonah doesn't pull away. He presses his ear to my chest, counting the beats until they level out. He’s my accomplice. My nurse. Mine.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “You’re hurting.”
“I’m alive.” I catch his hoodie again and drag him back down. “Get back here.”
He gives a wet laugh that is half sob and half relief. He bends to kiss me again, softer this time. Slower. His thumb brushes my jaw like he’s checking I’m real, tracing the bone as if to verify the pulse beneath.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I let my head fall back against the pillow. My side burns and my throat feels shredded. “I’ve been better,” I rasp. “But I’m alive. I’ll take the sore ribs as a win.”
He nods, his eyes shadowed. “You should lie down.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’ll go shower with you.” I don't want him more than an arm’s length away. I can't trust the silence of this house yet. As if he hears my thoughts, his palm anchors my hand. “Let me help you then.”
“I can do it myself.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Slow, though. If you fall and crack your head open, I’m calling Lev and letting him deal with you.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Whatever works.”
“Careful, Jonah. Blackmail is a dangerous game to play with a man who owns the police.”
“You can't even walk to the bathroom without leaning on me. I think I’ll take my chances.”
I stand, leaning on the dresser as the room rights itself. Jonah is at my side instantly, his shoulder bracing my weight. We move in silence toward the bathroom. He turns to the shower, adjusting the handle until steam fogs the glass.
I lean against the marble wall and let the cold stone brace my spine. I let him help me out of my clothes, his movements steady. When the fabric is gone, I step into the spray and pull him in. The water beats down over our shoulders and over the fresh bandage. I drape my arms over him, letting him take my weight. I don't want the friction tonight. I want the silence. I want the heat of the water to wash the memory of that basement floor off my skin.
“Viktor?” his voice is a question, vibrating against the stone.
“Just stay,” I rumble, closing my eyes. “Just wash me, Jonah.”
He settles against the wall. Reaching for the cloth, he doesn't rush. He works the soap over my shoulders and down my back. His touch is a grounding force.
I sink onto the marble seat. Jonah settles between my knees, the water beating against his back. He pours oil into his palms, the scent of sandalwood rising with the steam.
He finds the knots in my shoulders, his thumbs pressing with strength. My head drops forward. God, I’m tired. The kind of tired that gets into the bone. My pulse starts to level out. The rhythm of the nightmare fades behind the steady pressure of his hands. Every muscle in my back is a locked wire, but Jonah’s fingers don't care. They find the tension and force it to give.
“You’re too tense,” he murmurs.
“I have a lot of people to kill. It’s a stressful profession.”
He huffs a short breath. “Try to kill them with a lower heart rate. It’s better for your stitches.”
There is no rush for an ending. There is only the slide of his hands over my wet skin and the slow relief of letting someoneelse carry the weight. I watch the water swirl around his feet, rinsing the grime away, while he works until my breathing finally levels out.
