I say nothing and return to washing him. His arms, his hands, each individual finger scrubbed of blood under the nails. Every inch of him, changing the water twice in between, until no more blood remains.
When I’m done, I pull the plug and help him stand. Water runs off his body as I wrap a towel around him and dry him with the same care I used to wash him.
He’s silent. Vin is never quiet. Every room he enters is immediately overwhelmed by his presence, his demands. But right now he’s silent as a ghost, and it’s more terrifying than the blood.
I leave him standing there and go to the corner of my bedroom where I stashed a pile of his things, mostly clothes he left here over the weeks we were… whatever we were. I grab sweatpants and a t-shirt, bring them back to the bathroom.
He’s still standing where I left him.
“Here,” I say softly, handing him the clothes.
He takes them without a word and heads to the bedroom.
I stay and clean, scrubbing the pink ring from the tub, wiping down the tiles, switching his clothes from the washer to the dryer.
When I return to my bedroom, he’s lying in my bed naked. The sweatpants and t-shirt are folded neatly on the dresser.
My breath catches.
He’s facing away from me, shoulders tense despite the exhaustion that must be dragging at him. I stare at the broad expanse of his back, the muscles I’ve traced with my fingers and my tongue so many times.
I should sleep on the couch. I turn toward the living room, but his voice stops me.
“Stay.”
I close my eyes against the ache I’m feeling. “Vin…”
“Please.”
The second time he’s asked instead of demanded. I can’t say no.
“Stay facing the wall,” I whisper.
He shifts, turning his back fully to me and I quickly swap my wet clothes for dry pajamas then climb in behind him. The mattress dips under my weight, and I lie on my side, staring at his spine.
I shouldn’t touch him, but my hand moves of its own accord, fingertips finding the curve of his shoulder blade. He goes perfectly still under my touch. I trace the lines of muscle down his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Slowly, I feel the tension drain from his muscles. His breathing deepens then evens out as sleep takes him.
I lie there in the dark, my hand resting against his back, memorizing the feel of him one last time. Tomorrow he’ll be gone, but tonight, he’s mine.
58
Vin
Idon’t sleep. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, tuned into the feathery touch of Sophie’s fingertips tracing patterns across my back. She thinks I’m asleep. She thinks I don’t feel the way she’s memorizing me with her hands.
I force my breathing to stay even, deep, while every cell in my body screams at me to turn around and pull her into my arms. To kiss her until neither of us can breathe. To fuck her until I forget that tomorrow I’m sealing my fate with Ashlyn MacCuinn.
But I stay still and let her touch me until her breathing evens out. Her hand finally stills against my shoulder blade, and I know she’s asleep.
That’s when I turn.
The moonlight coming through the window catches on her face. Her dark hair is spread across the pillow, and those fucking eyelashes—long and thick—cast shadows on her cheeks. Her lipsare slightly parted, and I can see the rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin tank top she’s wearing.
My queen. Except she’s not. She can’t be.
I think about my mother. About the life she led, married to Aurelio. The fear in her eyes every time he came home drunk, the bruises she tried to hide with makeup and long sleeves. The way she’d smile at me and Tommy like everything was fine, when everybody fucking knew it wasn’t.
She was soft like Sophie, kind. She saw the good in people always. And it got her killed. Some fuck who wanted to get to Aurelio got her instead, putting a bullet in her brain. I was 12.
