But when he ventured back out into the hall with curls of steam still licking at his skin, he found himself staring at Nadine. There was dirt on her skin and her clothes, and with herdisheveled, mournful appearance, she looked like a ghost come to haunt him.
Her neck was now covered by a fresh bandage. His eyes lingered on it, wondering who had given her the plaster. Who had tended to her in the wake of his cruelty?
She stared at him, but the cervine trepidation that normally set him on fire now left him cold. “What happened to your neck?” he made himself say, despite the soreness in his throat. “And the rest of you?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Her voice was terror-sharp.
“Is that blood on your shirt?” he responded, automatically defaulting with another question, the way he’d learned to do in trial. But instead of going on the defensive, she burst into tears.
Cal rushed forward and gathered her into his arms before he was quite aware of what he was doing. The need to tend to her was instinctive, easy as breathing. Nadine sagged against him, too exhausted to fight, and there was an aching poignancy in that: the rabbit, surrendering to the embrace of her snare.
Gently, he smoothed his hand down her back and along her sides, and he felt her breath stagger against his throat, fast—almost as fast as the cadence of her heart at her breast.
Oh, Nadine, he thought.I’m so fucking sorry.
His fingers traveled over her bare waist, just grazing the hem of her top. The hand she’d laid on his chest abruptly fisted, pulling the fabric taut over his shoulders and pectorals. Both of them stilled. He did not trust himself to move, suspecting any sudden movement would send her fleeing down the hall and out of his embrace.
Slowly, so as to not disrupt the placement of her hands on his body, Cal released the hem of her shirt and began to reach forher head, but she whimpered, guarding against an injury that he couldn’t see. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I—I have a head wound. I’m frightened.”
She reached for him as she spoke—for his neck. The gesture pushed her up against him, close enough to smell the mineral tang of dust from the mines, the sweet copper of blood, all mingling with the foresty resin of his own soap, still powerful from recent use.
Cal caught her by the wrist, looking at her for a long moment as his fingers twined with hers. She had long fingers, shapely and feminine, but her hand was engulfed by his larger one.
It was as if no one else had ever offered her shelter. She clung to him like she was drowning. She had no idea what he’d done. Cal released his breath and smoothed his thumb along the inside of her palm, before gripping her tightly and tugging at her wrist.
“Come with me.”
She followed him. She’d followed him at the wedding, too, but then, she had showed just a hint of defiance that had become as much a part of their dance as the music itself. This meekness did not suit her. This was not submission; this was helplessness and defeat—and he had caused it.
“You’re not even going to fight?”
“I already did,” she said brokenly.
Guilt tugged at him as he took her in, standing in his bedroom with wilted posture and betrayal in her eyes. “You poor thing,” he whispered.
Giving her plenty of time to retreat, he lowered his hands to her shoulders. When she still didn’t move, he pushed just hardenough that she let herself fall to his mattress like a marionette with cut strings.
She straightened herself as he went to his nightstand to take out his rum. Her eyes were watchful and her fingers were white where she was gripping the dark sheets, as if she were ready to propel herself from the bed. A virgin sacrifice waiting out the altar. She looked at the rum bottle in his hands with suspicion and more than a hint of judgment.
“Sometimes I can’t sleep,” he offered.
“Do you dream?”
It was an odd question. “If I do,” he said, “I don’t remember.”
He took out a few pocket squares that he kept on hand to wear with some of his more formal attire. “It’s going to hurt,” he warned her, with a glance over his shoulder.
“I don’t care if it hurts.”
He felt his mouth shift into a muted half-smile. “I’m pleased to hear that.”
Someone had definitely dressed some of her wounds already. Apart from the bandage at her throat, it looked like some of the deeper cuts and scrapes had already been cleaned and treated. Cal turned his attention to her arm and began to dab at the ones that were still bleeding, probably from the rocks or the splintered wooden boards. She tried to yank back and he tightened his grip, keeping her arm where he wanted as the pocket square began to turn pink.
“Blood doesn’t bother you?” she asked, averting her eyes.
“No. Not at all.”
