“Yes,” she breathes, leaning back slightly into my touch. “It feels good.”
I take my time, making sure every strand is coated before guiding her under the spray to rinse. The suds run down her back in rivulets, disappearing down the drain. I follow with conditioner, working it through with careful attention, combing it with my fingers until her hair feels like silk between them.
“Almost done,” I murmur, rinsing again until the water runs clear.
When I finish, she turns to face me, water dripping from her lashes like tears. There’s something raw and unguarded in her expression that makes my chest tighten painfully.
“Thank you,” she says simply.
I don’t know what to do with the feelings crashing through me. I’m not built for this—for tenderness, for caring about someone else’s pain. The only person I’ve ever truly given a shit about is my mother, and that’s different.
I turn off the water and reach for one of the oversized towels hanging nearby. She stands there, water dripping from her bodyonto the tile, looking lost and small. I wrap the towel around her carefully, tucking it securely above her breasts.
“What now?” I ask, watching her face for any clue about what she needs.
She blinks slowly, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. “I just want to sleep,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she adds, “But I need to comb my hair first.”
“How about I do it?” I offer, surprising myself with the suggestion.
She doesn’t answer, just walks past me into the bedroom. For a second, I think she’s rejecting my help, but then she sits down at the vanity against the far wall. The message is clear enough.
I grab another towel and wrap it around my waist, following her. Her hair brush sits on the vanity—evidence of how thoroughly she’s infiltrated my space over these past weeks. I pick it up, hesitating for a moment before I start at the ends of her hair like I’ve seen her do.
I work slowly through the tangles. Her hair is fucking everywhere, still damp and smelling like her expensive shampoo. It feels strange to be doing something so mundane after the violence of the night, my hands gentle now when just hours ago they were covered in blood.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask when she winces as I hit a knot.
“No,” she says, but I slow down anyway, working through the tangle with careful fingers. “I just...today was...”
“I know,” I say, because what the fuck else can I say? Sorry a deranged priest kidnaped you? Sorry I wasn’t there sooner?
When her hair is smooth and untangled, I set the brush down. “Done.”
She stands up, the towel still wrapped around her. “Thank you,” she says, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
I nod, suddenly feeling awkward as shit. I walk to my dresser and grab a clean t-shirt. Faded black and soft from countless washes. “Here,” I say, holding it out to her. “For sleeping.”
She takes it without argument, letting her towel drop as she pulls the shirt over her head. It swallows her, hanging to mid-thigh. The sight of her in my clothes always does something primitive to my insides, but I push it down.
I pull on a pair of boxer briefs, hyper aware of her eyes on me. When I turn back, she’s already climbing into my bed, sliding under the covers on what has somehow become “her side”.
Sliding into the other side, I turn off all the lights and just lay there on my back. I don’t want to move toward her but I don’t want to move away from her either so I’ll just lay like a fucking corpse.
Ten minutes go by, and when I’m finally going to crack and move to my side, she shuffles across the sheets and instinctively I lift my arm and she slides right in. Molding her body to my side, head on my chest and her calf pressing down against my shin and I think I will finally be able to sleep.
Chapter 30
Seraphina
Iwake up wrapped around Lucien’s body like he’s my own personal life raft. My leg is thrown over his, my arm draped across his chest, and my face pressed against his neck where I can basically drown myself in his scent. For a moment, I just lie here, not moving, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He’s still asleep, which is a miracle, but I need to not have to deal with him for a moment.
Last night rushes back in flashes that make my stomach clench. Father Richards’ twisted face as he talked about “purifying” me. The ropes cutting into my skin. Father Richards’ hands on me, the altar, the knife, the blood. So much fucking blood. I shiver involuntarily, and Lucien’s arm tightens around me even in his sleep. The look in Lucien’s eyes when he found me—like he was barely containing something animalistic and deadly inside himself.
I should be more fucked up about witnessing a murder, right? Because that’s what happened—Lucien killed Father Richards right in front of me. Stabbed him and then twisted the knife, his face completely calm like he was just checking the time or some shit. Yet here I am, not running for the hills but curled around the killer like he’s my security blanket.
What does that say about me?
I should be traumatized. I should be a fucking mess. But all I feel is numb, like my brain has built a wall between me and the horror show of last night. Maybe that’s shock. Maybe that’s self-preservation. Either way, I’m not complaining.
