The shower roared to life. Steam rose, climbing the mirror. Clothes fell away. I stepped into the heat—
And froze. Faint bruises blooming on my arm.
The memory of rough hands. The brick wall. The gun. The deep demanding voice.
Air vanished. I braced both palms on the tile, breathing through the sting.
Five things.
Four.
Three.
The ache eased. The panic thinned.
I reached for my conditioner—too fast—and a bolt of pain shot up my spine, electric and blinding. My muscles seized, nerves screaming in protest. I jerked back, one hand braced at the small of my back, feeling the throb pulse through wet skin.
But I pushed through. Careful, measured movements. Each stretch a sharp spasm.
Minutes later, I was done—barely. A thin film of conditioner clung to my ends because I didn’t have the strength to rinse it all out.
I stepped into the cool air and grabbed a towel, wrapping it close around my chest.
Steam curled around me as I took myself in—damp hair, bare face, skin flushed from heat and effort.
The curl cream and diffuser called my name. I reached—another vicious pull in my lower back stopped me cold.
Okay. So that’s a no.
I wrapped a towel around my hair like a turban and stepped into my closet.
Nothing felt right. Structured clothes felt suffocating. Athletic wear rubbed wrong against my sore body.
So I opened my pajama drawer and dug until my fingers brushed something soft.
A silk shorts-and-tank set—deep red, cool and smooth against my skin.
I slipped it on and stood before the mirror. No makeup. No hair. No strategically picked clothing. No armor.
Just me.
My legs weakened. Suddenly the idea of letting him stay felt reckless. Vulnerable. Stupid.
But then—
Fuck it.
I opened the door and walked toward the man waiting in my living room.
Chapter 18
***
Damien
Ithink I’m going to die. Drop dead right here on Emma’s floor.
My head couldn’t keep up. My heart could. It hadn’t stopped since the elevator doors opened—steady, punishing, relentless.
