She didn’t second-guess him following her. It was simply the way things needed to be.
He turned the water on and adjusted until steam rose and the mirror fogged. She undressed and stepped in. She stood still under the warm spray as it eased the ache in her shoulders from having her wrists cuffed behind her for so long. When she tipped her head back, the water in her hair felt like fingers. Not Leland’s. His. Working through the strands with proprietary patience before the scissors came.
Julia shuddered, and her legs went weak beneath her without warning. She put one hand flat against the tile, and it wasn’t enough.
Suddenly, Leland was there. Steady, solid, and still fully dressed. He moved her gently away from the spray, bracing her against his chest. Taking charge because she needed him to.
“Can you hang on for another minute?” he asked gently.
“As long as you’re here,” she said, wrapping her weak arms around him.
He reached for the shampoo, and when his hands moved through her hair, slowly, working up a lather, she concentrated on the weight of his palms, the deliberate pressure of his fingertips against her scalp—careful, unhurried, nothing like before. She smiled faintly, too tired for more, at his warmth, the steadiness, and the care.
His hands suddenly stilled. And she knew what he’d found, the hair cut close and uneven. She felt the change move through him, a force that gathered and then locked down again, and she understood what it cost him.
His hands resumed, just as carefully as before, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
When he rinsed her hair, he cupped his hands and directed the water away from her face.
Leland picked up the body wash and squirted a generous amount onto the scrubby. He worked it into a lather and ran it over her shoulders with the same attention he’d given her hair. She stood still and let him, aware of how strange it was to be tended to. Strange, but not unwelcome.
Leland found the bruises on her throat first. Lowering his head, he grazed his lips over them, a tender, almost-imperceptible contact that felt incredibly soothing and brought a wave of calm. He moved on to the one on her ribs and another on her hips that she didn’t recall getting. Her wrists were worse. The marks there were a dark purple, the skin still angry from the ropes. He cradled her hands, bringing each wrist to his mouth with the same tenderness.
He didn’t say a word, but the distinction between who had made those marks and who was touching them now, moved through her like a door unlocking.
The hot water was fading before he turned off the shower. When she stepped out, he was already holding the towel and wrapped it around her. He took a second towel and dried her hair—not rough, not fast, with the same gentleness.
When he was satisfied, he stood, went to the hook on the door, and returned with one of his T-shirts. He didn’t hand it to her to put on. He gathered the hem, dropped it over her head, guided her arms through, and tugged the hem past her hips. Something in that small adjustment touched her.
He held out the hairbrush. “Get into bed,” he said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
She took the brush and went.
As she crossed into the bedroom, she heard the slap of wet denim on the tile floor behind her. The sound pulled her briefly into that moment, when he’d stepped beneath the spray because she needed him there. Men determined to keep their distance didn’t do things like that.
Neither did men who felt nothing.
***
Leland watched her go. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t.
She climbed into his bed without hesitation. Like she belonged there now. Like she’d decided, and that was the end of it.
He absorbed that for exactly one second. Then his mind went to Strickland.
He wanted him here. Wanted his hands around his throat. Wanted him to struggle and suffer, to understand her terror for once.
Leland’s jaw clenched until it ached. But he breathed through it. She’d been through enough. She didn’t need the version of him that wanted blood. So, he locked it down, all of it.
He’d already shed his soaked jeans. He stripped the rest and walked into the bedroom.
She was sitting at the edge of the mattress, the brush in her hand, arms tired. Not moving.
He crossed to her without a word and took the brush from her fingers.
She didn’t protest when he sat behind her and worked slowly through the tangled strands. He started at the ends, no pulling, no rush. Her silence deepened, her shoulders drooping with exhaustion.
Leland couldn’t stop the surge of anger when he found the jagged spot near her temple again. The bastard had taken it from her and turned it into a fucking trophy. Rage burned through him, but he kept the brush moving, his hand steady. She didn’t need to feel him shake.
