Because what the fuck is she supposed to say to that?
I let her go and head for the bathroom. “Come here.”
Behind me, there’s the smallest pause.
Then her footsteps.
I turn on the water and let the tub start filling. Steam curls up almost immediately, thickening the air. I reach for the bottle on the edge and pour in her marshmallow body wash. Sweet scent blooms fast, warm and soft and unmistakably hers.
I can feel the questions in the room without hearing them. I don’t answer any of them.
I turn back to her and step in close.
My fingers find the hem of her shirt.
She stiffens.
That one movement—small as it is, nearly puts my fist through tile.
I make myself ignore it.
Because if I let myself feel everything I want to do tonight, I’ll leave this room and come back with Gabriel’s blood under my nails before I’ve put her back together.
So I keep my hands steady and pull the shirt up slowly.
She lets me.
Arms lifting because I guide them there, not because she trusts me enough to know what comes next.
The shirt hits the floor.
Then her shorts until she’s just bare legs and the soft skin.
What the bastard did is mostly in her face. That almost makes it worse.
The split lip.
The swelling. The shadowing under one cheekbone.
The raw skin at her wrists.
A bruise darkening at her shoulder where she must’ve hit something hard. And under the plastic at her hip, my name sealed against her skin.
Nothing else.
No spread of damage down her ribs. No fingerprints blooming. No trail to follow lower.
He focused on her face.
On what people see first.
Onhumiliation.
Rage erupts under my skin. It feels like what it is:a message to me.
I strip out of my own clothes without taking my eyes off her. Shirt. Belt. Jeans. Everything dropped where it lands.
Then I take her hand and lead her with me into the bath.
