There's a pause. "Okay. Take your time." His footsteps sound across the wooden floor walking away.
I force myself to breathe slowly, in through my nose and out through my mouth. The way I used to do before yoga classes, back when my biggest worry was whether I'd have time to get my nails done before a charity gala.
I was so naive to just how bad things could be, back then.
But I can't afford to be weak now. I can't afford to fall apart. I need to survive this. I need to make sure that Kazimir doesn’t abandon me again.
I finish washing my body, then move on to my hair. This takes longer. My hair is matted with dirt and blood, and I have to work the soap through it carefully, untangling knots with my fingers. The soap dries it out—there’s nothing moisturizing about whatever this is—but it’s getting the filth out at least. The water turns from gray to brown to almost black.
I rinse my hair as best I can, dunking my head under the water and coming up gasping. Once, twice, three times, until the water runs clearer from the ends.
When I'm finally done, I sit there for another moment, just breathing. The water has cooled, and I'm starting to shiver, but I'm clean. For the first time in weeks, I'm actually clean. It doesn't erase what happened or make me whole again, but it's a start.
I stand slowly, water streaming off my body. I'm trying not to make too much noise, but I'm also aware that Kazimir can probably hear everything—the splash of water, the sound of me stepping out of the basin. The drip, drip, drip as I stand there, naked and dripping.
I wonder if he's imagining it. If he's fighting the urge to turn around.
I reach for the towel and dry myself carefully, patting at my skin rather than rubbing. Everything is tender, and I don't want to reopen any of the cuts that have started to close.
When I'm mostly dry, I glance at the other shirt I brought with me from the chest by the bed, another of those men’s shirts, this one a flannel in dark blue and black. Everything is too big, of course. But it's clean and warm, and that's all that matters.
Except... I could make this work for me.
I slip the shirt on, feeling the soft fabric against my clean skin. It smells like woodsmoke and something else, something masculine and warm. The sleeves are too long, hanging past my hands, and the hem falls to mid-thigh.
I button it slowly, but I leave the top three buttons undone. Enough to show the hollow of my throat, the hint of my collarbones. Not overtly sexual, but... suggestive. Intimate.
I look down at myself. The shirt is loose, but it hints at the shape of my body underneath. My wet hair hangs in pale waves around my face, dripping onto the fabric. I look vulnerable. Soft. Like something that needs protecting.
Perfect.
He’ll look at me and see the woman he's protecting. Saving. What he wants but can't have.
I step out from behind the blanket with the shirt unbuttoned at the top, my hair wet and dripping, my feet bare. “I’m done,” I say hoarsely, and Kazimir starts to turn around. “I’m sorry about—” I flap a hand uselessly toward the tub on the other side. “It’s kind of gross.”
“It’s fine.” I see his pupils darken, see the movement of his throat as he swallows. His gaze travels down, seeing the open collar of the shirt, the way it hangs on my frame, my bare legs below the hem.
Then he drags his eyes back up to my face, and there's something raw and hungry in his expression for just a moment, before he blinks, his expression going flat again.
"You should button that," he says, his voice rough. "It's cold."
"I'm still drying off." I run my fingers through my wet hair, slowly, deliberately. The movement makes the shirt shift, gaping open a little more. "Thank you for the clothes. And the bath. I feel... almost human again."
"It's nothing," he says, but this time it sounds strained.
I start buttoning the shirt, taking my time with each button. His eyes track the movement of my fingers, watching as I cover myself inch by inch. When I'm done, I look up at him through my lashes.
"Better?"
"Yeah." He clears his throat, looking away. "You should eat something. I found some more canned food. It's not much, but?—"
"I'm sure it's fine." I move past him, close enough that my arm brushes his. He goes very still, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the tension coiled in his muscles.
This is easier than I thought it would be. He's already half-gone, already wanting me. All I have to do is encourage it just enough to keep him hooked.
The cabin is blissfully warm despite the howling wind outside, the fire burning steadily. Kazimir has set out food on the small table—more canned stew, crackers, some kind of preserved fruit. My stomach growls at the sight of it, a sharp reminder that I haven't eaten properly in weeks. It’s not the kind of food I’d prefer, but it’s certainly better than nothing.
I sit down at the table, and he joins me after a moment, sitting across from me. The table is small, and our knees almost touch underneath it. This feels intimate, sharing a meal like this in such a small space, and I’m acutely aware of the proximity between us.
