I carry her straight to my bathroom, nudging the door open with my foot. The massive space gleams, the oversized soaking tub dominating one corner. I head toward it automatically, already thinking about warm water and bath salts to soothe her bruised skin.
“No,” she says suddenly, her fingers tightening on my shoulder. “Not a bath. I just want a shower.”
I pause, looking down at her face. Her eyes are clear now, focused on mine with surprising intensity given what she’s just been through. “Okay, whatever you want, Little Sinner.”
I set her down carefully, making sure her legs are steady beneath her before I let go. She sways slightly but remains upright, her hands immediately moving to the torn jersey she’s still wearing. Her fingers tremble too much to manage the fabric.
“Let me,” I say softly, reaching for the hem. She nods, lifting her arms so I can pull the ruined fabric over her head. I toss it in the trash. I never want to see it again, let alone have her wear it.
I take care of her bra next, unclasping it with practiced ease and sliding it down her arms. Her skin prickles with goosebumps in the cool air, her nipples hardening. Any other time, the sight would have my cock instantly hard. Now, all I feel is an overwhelming need to protect her, to wash away every trace of that fucker’s hands.
My fingers hook into the waistband of her jeans, and I drop to my knees in front of her. I look up, waiting for her nod before I unbutton them and slide the denim down her legs. She braces her hands on my shoulders as she steps out of them, leaving her in nothing but a tiny black thong. Before dragging those down also leaving her bare, before I stand back up.
I strip out of my own clothes quickly, dropping them in a pile. My eyes never leave her face, watching for any sign of discomfort or fear. But all I see is exhaustion and a desperate need to be clean.
Reaching into the shower, I twist the knob, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to fill the bathroom. Without a word, I take her hand and guide her into the massive glass enclosure. The hot water hits her skin, and she flinches slightly before stepping fully under the spray.
“Too hot?” I ask, my hand hovering over the temperature control.
She shakes her head. “No. It’s perfect.” Her voice is still small, but steadier now.
I step in behind her, closing the glass door. Water cascades over both of us, running in rivulets down her body. She stands motionless under the spray, eyes closed, face tilted upward as if the water might wash away more than just physical traces. I grab my body wash instead of hers because I need her to smell like me right now. Pouring a generous amount into the net, she insists on hanging in here because it’s better than anything else. I lather it between my hands and then move it over her skin in firm, gentle circles. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away, just stands there letting me take care of her.
My hands slide down her arms, carefully avoiding the rope burns on her wrists. I’ll deal with those afterwards; put some ointment on them to help them heal. For now, I focus on washing her, on replacing that fucker’s touch with mine.
I move to her back, fingers tracing the delicate line of her spine before spreading across her shoulder blades. Her skin is so fucking soft under my rough hands. I want to be gentle with her, but part of me wants to grip her tight, to leave my own marks over any trace Richards might have left.
I wash her front, hands sliding over her collarbones, down between her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach. Her eyes remain closed, her breathing steadier now. I drop to my knees in front of her, running soapy hands down her legs,over her calves, between her toes. I’m thorough, clinical almost, determined to clean every inch of her.
When I stand back up, her eyes finally open, meeting mine. The water has plastered her hair to her head, the elaborate braids she had earlier now a tangled, half-undone mess.
“Your hair,” I say, reaching up to touch one of the twisted strands. “Can I...would it be okay if I washed it for you?”
The question feels strange on my tongue. I’m not used to asking permission for things. I’m used to taking, commanding, demanding. But right now, with her looking so fucking fragile, I need her to know she has control over what I do and I’m worried touching her hair without asking might push her over the edge.
She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.
“I need to hear you say it,” I tell her, my voice gentle but firm. “I need your words, Seraphina.”
She swallows, her throat working visibly before she speaks. “Please,” she whispers, the word barely audible over the shower spray. “Please wash my hair.”
Something in my chest tightens at her request. I’ve never heard her sound so vulnerable, so stripped of her usual fire. It makes me want to burn the whole fucking world down for putting that tremor in her voice.
“Turn around,” I murmur, reaching for her favorite shampoo that somehow migrated to my shower weeks ago.
I start working on the braids, my fingers surprisingly steady as I unwind the intricate patterns. Her hair is tangled, snarled in places where she struggled against Richards. The thought makes my jaw clench, but I force myself to focus on being gentle. Each strand I free feels like reclaiming a piece of her.
“I’ve never done this before,” I admit, carefully working through a particularly stubborn knot.
“Done what?” Her voice is stronger now, steadier.
“Washed someone else’s hair.” The realization strikes me as strange. I’ve had my hands all over countless women’s bodies, been inside them in every way imaginable, but this—this feels more intimate somehow.
When the last braid comes undone, her hair falls in crimped waves down her back. I gather it in my hands, marveling at the silky weight of it. Methodically, I work the shampoo through, starting at her scalp and massaging, hoping I’m fucking doing this right.
She lets out a soft sigh, her shoulders dropping as some of the tension leaves her body. The sound goes straight through me, settling somewhere deep in my chest.
“Is this okay?” I ask, my fingers working their way down to the nape of her neck.
