Page 47 of The Tower

“Fuck, shit, damn,” I whisper as I sit on the edge of the tub. The words hang in the air, like tiny trophies.

Sasha said a swear word. Release the balloons!

I sigh, suddenly realizing how exhausted I am, physically and mentally.

I spread a towel out on the floor, then sit on the edge of the tub, my feet inside. I pull my leggings up to my thighs, then bend to push down the plug. Finally, I turn on the tap and adjust the temperature. Then, as water slowly rises over my feet, I try to simply sit and breathe. I’m beyond exhausted—too little sleep and too much stress. Not to mention the chemical war going on in my blood.

It’s all getting to me. And I don’t know whether to thank Grimm or curse him for being the final catalyst that sent my life spiraling in this direction.

Except he wasn’t. Not really.

I was the one who ran. More than that, I’m the one who’s still running. And as terrifying as that is, I’m proud of myself. I did it. I escaped. Grimm may be using me, but I’m using him, too. And I’ll keep using him for as long as he’ll stand as a wall between me and Victor Reed. Because there is no way I’m going back. Not now that I understand what my father did to my mother. What he did to me.

That’s why it doesn’t matter if Grimm is my savior or a devil. For right now, at least, I need him.

As if my thoughts have conjured him, there’s a tap at the bathroom door, then Grimm pushes it open and steps inside.

“Um, excuse me? Bathroom. Private time.” My voice comes out sharper than I’d intended.

He doesn’t respond. He simply walks in carrying the crystal bowl that had, moments before, been holding a cluster of decorative pinecones.

“What on earth are⁠—?”

His finger on my lips silences me, the unexpected touch sending an electric current coursing through me. His finger is warm, slightly rough, and the pressure against my lips is gentle but undeniably assertive.

I tell myself I should pull away.

Then I tell myself to shut up.

Our eyes stay locked. One beat, then another. Then Grimm removes his finger and sits beside me on the edge of the tub, his feet—still in shoes—on the bathmat. He half-fills the bowl with water from the tap, then sets it on the floor before reaching for my right foot and lifting it from the tub.

“You’ve cut yourself,” he says, as he examines the sole of my foot.

“Small price to pay for getting away from my father,” I say, trying—and failing—to tug my foot free.

“I suppose.” He bends over to dip a washcloth into the clear water of the bowl. Then he begins to clean my foot, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who seems to always dominate everything around him.

“And our arrangement?” he asks, his eyes hard on mine. “Is that a small price, too?”

Everything. I hug myself, unable to stop the shiver that runs through me. He must have noticed, but he says nothing, just continues ministering to my feet.

“Well?” he presses, after the silence has hung between us for what seems an eternity. He gently returns one foot to the bathwater, then lifts the other. I clutch the side of the tub tighter for balance, grateful for the excuse not to answer.

Not that he lets me get away with it. “Come now, Princess. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He cocks a brow. “I believe this game is played by my rules.”

I clench my hands into fists and look into the darkening tub.

“Something you’d like to say to the class?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. Then I tilt my head to the side, just enough so that I can see him. I’ve read enough romances to know the answer he wants. “No, sir.”