“Any of it. All of it. You sound like nothing happened, like you don’t care.”
This time he does go still.
Not just his hands. All of him.
The entire length of his body against mine goes hard and silent, like I just hit some wire under the skin.
When he speaks, his voice is low enough that I feel it in my spine more than hear it.
“Because if I start saying exactly how much I care right now,” he says, “I will leave this tub and go tear Gabriel apart with my hands before I am finished putting you back together.”
My breath catches.
He dips the cloth into the water again. Wringing it out. Control in every movement.
Putting me back together.
“We don’t need to hash it all out. It’s done. And now you’re here. With me.”
My voice comes out small despite my best efforts. “Did you send Vaska in to kill me?””
He doesn’t answer immediately.
That answer is enough.
My throat tightens.
He must feel it because his hand leaves the cloth for a second and spreads over my stomach, wide and hot and heavy there.
“I sent him because I couldn’t trust myself,” he says. “There is a difference.”
“That’s a terrible difference.”
“For you, maybe.”
I almost laugh again. It would sound hysterical if I let it out.
His hand moves back to the washcloth. Up over my ribs this time.
The silence stretches until it hurts.
Then I say the thing I shouldn’t. “Did you want him to?”
His hand stops over my side.
I feel his breath touch the back of my neck once. Slow in. Slower out.
“No.”
The answer lands so fast and clean it hurts more than hesitation would have.
I look down at my fingers in the water.
Wrinkled skin. Healing scrapes. A body that feels like it belongs to too many people and not enough to me.
“I really need you to tell me if you’re angry at me.”
He shifts his hold so he can rinse the cloth again. I watch water run through his fingers.
