He lathered his hands and brought them to her scalp. Began working the soap through her hair with gentle pressure. Starting at the crown, massaging slowly, his fingertips tracing circles against the delicate skin, working down to where her hair met her neck, the soft give of her scalp beneath his touch.
She made a sound. Soft. Almost a moan.
Her shoulders dropped, relaxing under his touch. Her head tilted slightly, giving him better access.
His hands stilled for half a second.
The heat of her body so close. The way she melted under his touch. The smell of her skin mixing with jasmine. The want rising in him when exhaustion should have made it impossible.
Control.He forced his hands to continue their work—fingers moving through her hair, making sure every strand was clean.
He rinsed her hair, cupping water in his hands and pouring it over her head. Making sure no soap got in her eyes. Taking longer than necessary because stopping meant acknowledging what came next.
Then he reached for the washing cloth.
Paused with it in his hand.
His gaze traveled down. The curve of her neck. Her shoulders. The line of her spine disappearing beneath the water. Lower to where the bruises marked her ribs. Evidence of her death. Her resurrection. His claim on her that went soul-deep.
He let out a breath and lathered the cloth.
"Arms first." His voice came out rougher than intended.
She lifted one arm without hesitation.
He started at her shoulder, the cloth moving slowly down. Over the curve of her elbow, along her forearm, where he could see her pulse beating. Her wrist, where her skin was so soft.
She leaned into his touch. Just slightly. Just enough that he knew she felt it too.
Down her back, the cloth trailed along her spine. Her skin was fever-warm beneath the water. His shadows stirred, wanting to wrap around the fading bruises.
Mine, they whispered.Ours. Almost lost her.
Across her sides, avoiding the bruises.
His grip on the cloth tightened. His other hand had somehow landed on her hip, steadying her. Or steadying himself. Skin to skin beneath the water.
Stop.He pulled back. Handed her the cloth. "You can do the rest."
She took it. Her fingers brushed his, lingering just a moment too long to be an accident. The tension thickened as she finished washing the places he'd avoided, places he wanted to touch. Not yet. Not when they were both barely holding together.
When she was done, she set the cloth aside and settled back against the tub with an exhale. Her eyes closed. Water lapping at her collarbones.
He moved back to his side of the tub and began washing himself quickly.
When he looked up, her eyes were dark. Lips parted slightly. Heat in her expression.
"What?"
"Come here."
"Brynn—"
"Please."
He moved through the water toward her. She met him halfway, and suddenly they were inches apart, close enough that he could see silver threading through her irises—his mark, his essence, proof of what he'd done. What they'd become.
Her hands found his chest, fingers splayed against his skin, right over his heart, where she could probably feel it racing.
