CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
She doesn’t flinchas I step out of the elevator. Her breathing is even against my chest, as if she found somewhere safe to land. My grip tightens. Entering the penthouse, I kick off my bloody boots before walking straight to the master bathroom.
The light in the bathroom is too bright, and I quickly lower the dimmer switch to avoid waking her for as long as I can. Leaning into the shower, I remove my arm from around her waist to turn the water on, holding her by her legs. Pulling some towels out of the closet, I drop them on the counter, my gaze traveling to the mirror to really take her in. Her blood-soaked hair, the sliver of blood that peeks out from under the suit jacket on her thigh. So much red.
She’s a fucking masterpiece.
Steam begins to curl around the ceiling, the water pattering against the tile reminds me of the night I found her. Something twists in my gut. Not because of what I did at the warehouse that night, but because of what happened that led us there in the first place. Reminding me that tonight could have taken a very different turn had I not been there. Bringing my free hand to her cheek, I stroke it lightly.
“What am I gonna do with you, doll?” I murmur. The memory threatens to pull me away from the present. I adjust my hold under her legs, and her fingers twitch against my chest, followed by a small groan. Her lashes flutter, heavy and confused. She blinks up at me, trying to place where she is.
“Karson?” It’s weak.
“Yeah, doll.” My thumb brushes along the freckles under her eyes. “Penthouse.” I tell her, suddenly struggling with words.
Her body relaxes into mine again, not fighting it this time. Trusting the answer. She feels incredible in my arms, like she was always meant to be there. Because she was.
Jesus.
Lowering her to her feet slowly, I keep an arm braced around her when she sways a little. I wrap the suit jacket around her, pulling it over itself in the front.
“I gotta get this off,” I tell her, tugging at my shirt where splatters of blood have started stiffening the fabric. “Don’t want to get it on you again.”
Her gaze drops, a little sluggish, then she nods. I peel the shirt over my head and toss it somewhere in the room, not caring where it lands. These clothes are trash now. I don’t look at her when I do, convinced if our eyes collide the freshly fucked haze will wear off and she’ll realize what’s happened, and she’ll run.
I won’t let that happen again.
Working off my jeans that are now stuck to my thighs, I throw them over where my shirt lays on the floor along with my boxers and socks.
“Let’s get cleaned up,” I say. She nods, letting the jacket puddle at her feet. She raises a leg, trying to pull herself out of the fishnets, but stumbles. I catch her by the waist before she can fall. She lets out a tired, annoyed huff.
“Can you help me?” she asks softly.
“Of course.”
Keeping one arm around her waist, I drop to one knee and gently grip the material at her waist, slowly peeling them down her legs. Carefully, I lift each foot off the floor one at a time, and toss them in the pile of bloodied rags. I repeat the process with her panties, and pull her into the shower with me.
I position her so the water falls down her back and gently tip her chin up with two fingers. Her eyes flutter closed again, a small, barely there hum as the water gently cascades from the ceiling, soaking into her hair. The water runs like the river of blood at my feet, and I hold her there until it turns pink. Once it does, I remove my hand to grab a bottle of my shampoo and drizzle it into my hand. Working the lather into her hair until it suds, I repeat the motion of holding her in place while it rinses, then wash again until the pink runs clear. Her eyes remain closed the whole time, her body relaxed, letting me bend her at my will as I wash her body.
When she’s clean, I make quick work of washing myself, removing any evidence of the carnage from the both of us. I shut off the spray, then reach behind her to squeeze most of the excess water out of her hair. Reaching for a towel, I wrap it around her first, then grab another to throw around my waist and a third for her hair. I squeeze enough so that it doesn’t soak through everything, then slowly lead her to the bedroom. She’sexhausted, poor thing barely opens her eyes as we move, trusting my lead. As if she had any other choice.
Fuck.
Stopping at the dresser, I blot her skin with the towel carefully. My doll is anything but fragile, but right now seeing her so pliant is foreign territory. She sways again and my arms lock around her waist.
“Easy,” I breathe. Her hands fall to my arms, curling into the skin to steady herself. Her pretty blue eyes open for the first time since before the shower, and her sleepy gaze lands on mine. “I got you.”
Taking a shirt out, I slip it on her, helping with her arms. Her knees wobble again, so I lift her and carry her the rest of the way to the bed. When I lay her down, she makes a small sound of protest. Her fingers grab mine, as if she thinks I’d vanish if she let go. Looking down at our hands, my chest cracks.
“I’m not going anywhere, doll,” I whisper, and her grip loosens but she doesn’t let go. Pulling the blankets over her, I tug them up to her shoulders. She burrows into the pillow, her breath evening out almost immediately. But she still doesn’t let go of my hand. So I lower myself to the floor, and let her keep it.
My terror can take whatever she wants from me.
Anything.
Everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
