When I’m completely naked, I stumble into the shower, turning the water on full blast. I don’t care that it’s ice cold at first—maybe that’s what I deserve. A fucking baptism of ice to cleanse me of my sins.
The water gradually warms as I grab the nearest bottle of soap, squeezing a massive amount into my palm. It smells like the fucking ocean and I never thought I could hate the smell, but here we are.
I scrub at my skin with a vicious determination, like I can erase what just happened if I just rub hard enough. My flesh turns angry red under my assault, but I can’t stop. I scrape my nails across my chest, my stomach, between my legs. Anywhere his eyes touched me, anywhere I felt desire.
“Get it off,” I mutter, grabbing more soap, working it into a lather that burns my already raw skin. “Get it out, get it off.”
Blood blooms in thin streaks where my nails have broken the skin. Good. I need to bleed. Need to purge whatever sick fucking part of me enjoyed kneeling before him.
I grab his loofah and scrub harder, ignoring the sting as it tears at my already damaged skin. More little beads of blood appear, mixing with the water swirling at my feet.
“Not enough,” I whisper, scrubbing frantically at my neck where his mark still stains my skin. “Not fucking enough?—”
The shower door yanks open and suddenly Lucien’s there, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of me. He’s still shirtless, his lounge pants back to being slung low on his hips, and the sight of him makes me want to vomit all over again.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, reaching for my hands.
I try to twist away. “Don’t touch me! Get out!”
But he’s already stepping into the shower, fully clothed, grabbing my wrists to stop my frantic scrubbing. “Stop it, Seraphina! You’re bleeding!”
“Good!” I scream, struggling against his grip. “That’s what needs to happen! I need to bleed it out!”
“Bleed what out?” His voice is sharp as he holds my wrists in one large hand.
“The sin,” I sob, my legs giving out beneath me. Only his grip keeps me upright. “I need to bleed out the sin. It’s inside me, it’s fucking poisoning me. I let you—I wanted—oh God?—“
“Enough,” he commands, his voice cutting through my hysteria. He reaches behind me to shut off the water. “That’s enough.”
“It’s not enough,” I babble, shaking violently now. “I’m disgusting. I’m filthy. I need to get clean. Need to bleed it out?—“
“Seraphina, STOP.”
The command in his voice is so powerful it actually silences me for a second. I blink up at him through the water dripping from my lashes, suddenly aware of how cold I am, how badly I’m shaking.
He releases my wrists to grab a towel from the rack, wrapping it around me with surprising gentleness. I’m too shocked to resist as he lifts me out of the shower, my naked body pressed against his.
“Put me down,” I demand, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, carrying me across the bathroom.
I blink through my tears, disoriented, as he sets me down on what I realize is a padded bench in front of an illuminated vanity mirror at the far end of the enormous bathroom. The towel is wrapped tightly around me, cocooning me in its softness.
He grabs a small white box from beneath the vanity and kneels in front of me. His fingers work quickly, pulling out gauze pads, antiseptic, and some kind of cream. I watch, numb and disconnected, as he gently dabs at the raw patches on my arms where I’ve scratched myself bloody.
“This might sting,” he warns, applying the antiseptic to my self-inflicted wounds.
I don’t even flinch. The physical pain is nothing compared to the churning in my gut, the self-loathing that threatens to consume me whole. I stare at the ceiling while he methodically cleans each scratch, each bloody streak.
When he’s done with my arms, he tilts my face to examine the damage I’ve done to my neck and chest. His touch is clinical, almost impersonal, as he treats those wounds too. I can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see whatever emotion might be lurking in those green eyes.
“Tu es si têtue. Pourquoi tu te fais du mal comme ça?” he murmurs, his French flowing soft and low as he works.
I have no fucking idea what he’s saying. French was never my thing. I took Spanish in high school. The words wash over me, strangely soothing despite coming from the very person I’m trying to scrub from my skin.
He continues muttering as he finishes tending to my wounds, his voice a constant stream of melodic sounds that mean nothing to me. When he’s done, he grabs a brush from the counter and moves behind me.
The first stroke through my wet, tangled hair makes me wince, but he’s surprisingly gentle, working through the knots methodically, section by section. Nobody has brushed my hair since I was a little girl. The unexpected tenderness of it makes my throat tight.
