For a moment, the only sound in the shower is the water running, a steady reminder of our surroundings. Then Hawk exhales slowly. “I didn’t touch her.”
His voice is quiet but firm, and my chest tightens at the thought of that moment. “I know what it looked like,” he continues, rinsing the cloth again. “But I wasn’t even in the room.”
I glance back at him slightly, curiosity piquing. “What do you mean?”
“I went into the bathroom in my office,” he explains. “There’s a closet in there. I was digging around, trying to find a sweatshirt for you.”
The words make my heart squeeze a little. “For me?”
His mouth twitches faintly, a small smile breaking through his worry. “You said you were cold.”
The water runs over my shoulders as he keeps talking, and I can feel the warmth spreading through me. “While I was in there, Ginger walked into my office. I didn’t even know she was there until after.”
My brows knit slightly in confusion. “She told me you—”
“I know what she told you.” His jaw tightens again, frustration creeping into his tone. “We checked the cameras after you left. Ghost pulled the footage.”
He meets my eyes, and the sincerity in his gaze softens the tension inside me. “I never touched her, Emma.”
His voice softens slightly, becoming almost a whisper. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Something warm spreads slowly through my chest, a sense of relief washing over me. “You think I’d risk losing you over some club girl?” he murmurs, his words wrapping around me like a promise.
My throat tightens, emotions swirling within me. “You’re the only one I want.” The words settle deep inside me—simple, honest, and profound.
“I’m glad,” I whisper, my heart swelling at the depth of our connection.
Hawk’s hand steadies against my shoulder. After a moment, he reaches up and gently tilts my chin so he can rinse the last traces of blood from my neck. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he vows quietly.
His voice isn’t possessive in a threatening way; it sounds like a promise, like something he decided the moment he saw me on that kitchen floor. Something soft pulls at my chest, a flicker of hope amidst the pain.
Despite everything. Despite the bruises. A tiny smile touches my lips. “I like the sound of that,” I murmur.
Hawk’s expression softens, and his thumb brushes gently along my shoulder before he goes back to rinsing the last streaks of blood from my arms. The water continues to run over us—warm, steady. And for the first time since I opened that box in my kitchen, I finally feel clean.
Twenty-Nine
Emma
The water runs a little longer than it needs to.
Neither of us mentions it, lost in our own thoughts.
It’s warm and steady, wrapping around me in a comforting embrace. For the first time since I opened that box in my kitchen, my body doesn’t feel like it’s vibrating with leftover panic.
Hawk stands behind me the entire time, one hand lightly braced against the tile beside my shoulder, as if he’s afraid I might slip away or simply vanish into the steam. The warmth of the water flows over my skin, washing away the remnants of chaos, and I lean into the moment, letting it envelop me.
When he finally turns the water off, the sudden quiet feels strange, like a sudden shift from a bustling street to a deserted alley. The steam hangs thick around us, creating a hazy curtain that makes everything feel more intimate.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The world outside seems far away, and it’s just us in this small sanctuary.
Then Hawk reaches for a towel—a big one, soft and plush. He wraps it around my shoulders with a careful touch, makingsure it doesn’t brush too hard against the bruises on my throat. “Easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, laced with a tenderness that makes my heart swell.
He speaks to me like I’m something fragile, and part of me wants to laugh a little because I’ve never seen myself that way. But right now? My ribs ache with every breath, and my head feels like someone dropped a brick inside it. When I try to stand, my legs tremble beneath me, quaking with uncertainty.
So maybe tonight, I am fragile.
Hawk dries my hair gently, blotting it instead of rubbing. Every movement is slow, careful, patient. “Think you can stand?” he asks quietly, his eyes searching mine for reassurance.
