Her eyes grow wide as they fall on the shampoo.
The sparkle of overwhelm that lines her eyes with silver impels me to go over to her.
My motion jolts her from that stupor, a trickle of fear tightening her mouth as I approach, grabbing the bottles as I pass.
“Relax,” I say, kneeling by her head. “I’ll do it.”
She’s practically paralysed as I take the position behind her and gather her hair together. She tenses at that first touch, shoulders shooting to her ears.
The reaction spears through me and I find myself saying, “I’ll be gentle.”
She doesn’t respond, but as I start working on her nest of hair, as gently as I can, her shoulders ease back down.
I don’t say anything as I knead through the matted strands, using dollops of shampoo and conditioner to work out those awful stains I refuse to contemplate, my mind drifting to her question.
Caden will never love her – regardless of the fact there’s something about her he so blatantly likes – he’ll only look after her, if she’s good for him. And something tells me she’s not in a rush to do that.
I do know one thing. There’s something that connects the two of them in a way that they won’t ever find in anyone else. Something that links their souls so deeply that even if they never have any emotion toward each other except hate, they will always have an understanding deeper than anyone else. One of great loss and devastation. She carries it with her exactly as he does. It’s like an infected shadow, a stagnant gloom around them. Caden’s grief is as black as hers around their silhouettes. I’ve known Caden all my life and this girl for five minutes. But grief is grief. It’s distinct. And black as fuck. It hasn’t eased in the months that have passed either, the gravity of a significant loss that dims the glow in a person’s eye.
They’ll always be connected in a unique way that may one day bring them together or tear them further apart.
Because the day Elodie Valor lost her only brother, Caden Blackwood lost his only brother too.
CHAPTER 5
ELODIE
Having an imposingly giant man watch me bathe is nowhere near the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s still unsettling. His bright blue eyes never left my body. If they weren’t locked with my own blue ones, they were scanning the bits of marred skin exposed as I shifted in the water to wash myself.
He didn’t hide the curiosity either, as his eyes raked over my plethora of wounds and marks.How did you get them? What happened to you? Who hurt you?All the nosiness sparkled in his eyes as he watched, but he didn’t ask again. Not that I’d tell him if he did. It’s not something I’m in a hurry to relive, especially not to an ogling stranger.
Then the ogling stranger washed my hair.
I was so stunned by the idea of having clean hair I couldn’t move. My arms trembled too much to even reach for the bottles. Then he just… washed it. With those huge hands and bulky arms as hosts for an unimaginable amount of strength and power, he managed to remain gentle.
His thick fingers massaged into my scalp, the sensation raising goosebumps all over me, despite the hot water. I’ve never felt anything like it.
He’s different to the other two, I know that much from our minimal interaction. There’s a tenderness that the others lack. Perhaps that’s why he’s been fobbed with the task of babysitting me – to echo his words. I can’t say I mind. He’s incredibly easy on the eyes. Golden tanned skin underneath black and shaded tattoos. His right arm is covered in numerous magical creatures: dragons, a hydra, a werewolf, and a phoenix. A sleeve of various other animals like a lion’s head, tiger’s head, a bear’s head and a dragonfly and a dove on the other, all below a ship, the shell of which pokes out the short sleeve of his shirt. His masculine features are endearing. He’s someone I would perhaps date if I had a regular life. If I knew how to date.
Once I’m ready to get out, he throws me a towel and brings his hands up to his face again. I’m not stupid. I know he’s peeping, but as long as I don’t have to meet those eyes while I’m stark naked and wet, I can get over it.
I’m feeling a little more human, looking a little more like it too, but it all still seems alien to me. In a stranger’s house, bathing of my own free will (kind of) and not being hosed down by a servant, being spoken to with a soothing voice instead of hostility and degradation. Apparently, I’m being fed next.
Alfie explains he hasn’t got any girls’ clothes for me, they all expected me to come with luggage, as if I own a single thing for myself anymore.
Things got bad the past few weeks leading up to today. Upon reflection, I suppose I could have fought a little less, knowing that any effort would have been futile. My dad decided I needed to marry off, get out of his hair, and so it shall have been, regardless of my feelings towards it. But I can’t help myself. I have this ineffable instinct to resist, to fight, when the darknesstells me what’s coming is bad. Even though I’m the only one who ends up suffering for it in the end.
After one of our last fights, Dad burned everything I owned. Everything. The nightdress I came to Caden’s house in was the only thing left, and I assume that will be burned as well. It’s beyond repair by now, certainly not worth attempting to salvage. I’d soiled it so much I don’t even think I’d want it back.
While Alfie goes through what I assume is Caden’s wardrobe, I stare at the toothbrush and toothpaste he placed on the marble counter in the bathroom.
I’m clutching the towel around my chest and just staring. When was the last time I brushed my teeth? When was the last time I tasted anything but copper or vomit or the foul remnants of both?
With a trembling hand, I pick up the toothbrush, put the toothpaste on it, and stick it in my mouth.
Mint. Glorious, burning, wonderful mint.
I feel the tears prickling my eyes as I brush and brush and brush. The flavour sloshing around every part of my mouth, stinging and almost painful, but it’s clean. I have a clean mouth.
