He steps back, his eyes slowly, methodically dragging over every inch of my bare skin. He catalogs the faint bruises on my armsfrom the escape, the dark smudges of dirt on my thighs, the absolute, flawless curve of my waist.
"Get in," he commands softly.
I step down into the sunken tub. The water is scalding, a shocking, beautiful contrast to the freezing rain that had chilled my bones for two days. I sink down until the water reaches my collarbones, a long, ragged sigh entirely escaping my lips as the heat immediately begins to uncoil the rigid, terrified knots in my muscles.
I look up, expecting him to sit on the edge.
Instead, Thayer begins to unbutton his ruined, blood-stained black shirt with his right hand.
"Thayer, no," I say, sitting up slightly, the water splashing against the marble. "Your stitches. The water isn't sterile."
"The water is heavily filtered, and the wound is sealed with surgical tape," he replies stubbornly, discarding the ruined shirt. He strips off his dark tactical trousers and boxer briefs, leaving him entirely bare.
The sheer, massive scale of him in the bright sunlight is breathtaking. He is a canvas of brutal violence and dark art. The heavy black ink of his Syndicate tattoos winds around his ribs and down his right arm, a stark contrast to the thick white bandages wrapping his left shoulder and chest. The dark, ugly bruise spreading across his ribs where Bastian’s bullet grazed him looks incredibly painful.
He steps down into the massive tub, the water rising significantly to accommodate his heavy frame.
He doesn't sit across from me. He moves directly behind me. He slides his long legs on either side of my hips, pulling my back completely flush against his uninjured right chest.
I gasp softly as the hard, muscular wall of his body aligns perfectly with my spine. The heat of the water is nothing compared to the immense, burning furnace of his skin.
He reaches for a heavy glass bottle resting on the marble ledge. He pours a thick, rich liquid into his palm. It smells intensely of coconut, sandalwood, and heavy cream.
He brings his hand to my hair.
"Close your eyes," he murmurs, his voice a dark, velvet caress vibrating directly against my ear.
I obey.
His large, calloused fingers begin to massage the rich lather into my scalp. The touch is entirely devoid of the frantic, desperate aggression of our survival. It is slow, methodical, and profoundly worshipful. He works the thick soap through the heavy waves of my hair, meticulously washing away the grime, the sweat, and the stench of the gunpowder.
"You saved my life, Sybil," Thayer whispers, his thumbs pressing deeply into the tension at the base of my skull, making my head loll back heavily against his collarbone.
"You saved mine first," I breathe, entirely melting into his touch.
"You sewed my flesh back together," he continues, entirely ignoring my deflection, completely focused on validating my strength. His hands move down, spreading the rich lather over my shoulders, his rough palms dragging in slow, heavy circles over my collarbones. "You held a gun to a room full of killers anddared them to cross you. You are the most terrifying, beautiful creature God ever completely abandoned."
The praise is a dark, heavy drug. It completely rewires my brain, replacing the shame of my actions with a deep, flushing pride.
His hands slide lower, moving beneath the surface of the warm water. His palms cup my heavy breasts, his thumbs dragging slowly, agonizingly over my peaks. The water does nothing to dilute the violent electrical current of his touch.
I whimper, my internal muscles instantly clenching, a heavy, desperate heat pooling between my thighs.
"Good girl," he murmurs, feeling the involuntary arch of my spine against his chest. "Let it go, Sybil. The war is over. I just want to take care of you."
He moves the sponge down my arms, meticulously cleaning the faint traces of blood from my fingernails. He washes my stomach, his hand resting heavily over my navel, pressing me tighter against the thick, hard ridge of his arousal resting between the cleft of my buttocks.
He doesn't push for sex. He doesn't demand consummation. He simply holds me, completely surrounding me in the warm water, worshipping the body that belongs entirely to him.
The sheer, unconditional devotion is overwhelmingly intimate. It breaks the final, microscopic barrier protecting my heart.
I turn my head, pressing my lips against the wet, tattooed skin of his neck.
"I love you," I whisper, the confession tearing from my soul, completely unforced, completely absolute.
Thayer’s hands completely freeze. His entire massive body goes completely rigid in the water. The rhythmic thud of his heart against my back suddenly spikes, beating a frantic, bruised rhythm.
"Say it again," he demands, his voice a ragged, completely shattered rasp.
