I grabbed the towel she had wrapped around her. Started at her arms—long, slow strokes that followed the curve of muscle and bone. Over her shoulders. Down her back. The towel absorbed water in silence, leaving her skin pale and clean.
I moved lower. Along her thighs. Behind her knees. Down to her calves. And then—without thinking, without hesitating—I dropped to one knee.
The tile was cold against my kneecap.
I moved the towel around her left ankle, dried carefully up to her knee. Switched legs. Same deliberate attention. Same agonizing patience.
My world narrowed to the motion. The texture of the towel. The way her breathing hitched when I touched the inside of her ankle.
I'd never knelt to anyone. Not my father. Not my coaches. Not the women who'd tried to tame me.
Kneeling was submission. Weakness. Loss of control. But here I was—on one knee on cold tile, drying Belle Reiss's legs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I didn't notice. Didn't register the symbolism. Didn't realize what I'd just given away.
But Belle did.
I felt it in the way her body went rigid above me. The way her breath caught—sharp and sudden. The way her fingers curled against my shoulder, nails pressing through fabric.
When I looked up, she was staring down at me. Eyes wide. Shocked. Confused. Like she was seeing something she didn't understand. Something that terrified her more than anything I'd done before.
I stood quickly. Wrapped the towel around her shoulders.
"Bed," I said again.
My voice came out rougher than intended.
She walked.
I followed.
And neither of us spoke about what had just happened.
I eased her onto the bed. She sat there, towel wrapped around her shoulders, watching me with eyes I couldn't read. Wary. Exhausted. Something else.
I pulled open the drawer. Found the pajamas exactly where I'd left them. Soft flannel. Navy blue with tiny white stars. The kind of thing someone wore when they were sick. When they needed comfort more than beauty.
I'd bought them five days ago. Before she arrived. Before any of this started.
Not lingerie.
Not silk.
Not anything meant to seduce.
Just warmth.
I held up the shirt. Belle didn't move. Didn't raise her arms. Didn't help.
So I did it myself.
I gathered the fabric in my hands, slipped it over her head carefully. Her damp hair caught on the collar. I freed it gently, threading the shirt down until her face emerged—pale and blank and so goddamn tired I felt something twist in my chest.
"Arms," I murmured.
She lifted them mechanically.
I guided one through the sleeve, then the other, my fingers brushing her skin as I adjusted the fabric. The shirt hung loose on her frame. Too big. Comfortable.
