Page 13 of Prince of Wrath

His chest rises faster as he runs a hand through his handsome hair.

Right.

Touching is not possible now, but I am not sure I can stand long enough yet. Until now, a nurse has helped me bathe, but it was always short, mainly the passing of a damp washcloth. I have not properly showered since I came here.

“I’m afraid to fall on the ground.”

“I’d catch…” He winces. “Tell me what to do, Ella. Tell me how to help.” Powerless. Is that how he feels? Because so do I. All I know is that I need him, always, that parting from him now would ravage the tiniest spark of safety I am recovering.

“My hair,” I sign. “If I sit in the bathtub and…and you don’t look at…” I wave at my body covered with a hospital gown, flesh wrapped around my bones that I cannot perceive as attractive or desirable now. “If you don’t look at me…do you think you could wash my hair?”

I need him to help me, perhaps not exactly like a boyfriend, maybe closer to a parental figure, which is a lot to ask. And I have the thought that this is what happens in old age, when a man or a woman tends to a sick spouse, lust and desire long gone, morphing intimacy into care and did you take your meds and let me help you sit. And I am not sure if I’m not asking too much of a man who could have any woman with a snap of his fingers. We are not even a couple yet. We have only kissed a few times.

I am asking for the highest form of respect someone in a vulnerable state like mine can ask for. I know how unnatural it is, but my mind is not able or ready for desire, nor lust. Not now. Not after being branded like cattle and held at gunpoint. Am I asking too much?

“Of course,” he mutters. “Of course I’ll wash your hair, sweetheart. I mean, Ella.” He corrects himself, the endearment slipping away like a knee-jerk reaction. Please, call me sweetheart, I want to say, but everything is still too blurry in my head for us to exist yet. I glance at the open door. Inside are a bathtub, a toilet, and a sink. The medical bathtub has a door that can open, and I am grateful for it. I look down at the floor, hoping my knees will not give out. Before my bare feet touch the soft, plasticky blue linoleum, Tristan calls me.

“Clap your hands when you’re ready for me.” His eyes are on me, and it is hard to ignore his overwhelming presence, or my stomach waking up to his attention. Focus. One step after the other. Recovery, recovery, and then, and then I will live normally. A rectangular mirror, as large as the length of my arms spread out, greets me above the sink, and I watch in disgust the consequences of what twelve days of captivity have done to me. If you had told me that someone’s appearance could change in twelve days, I would not have believed it. My finger lands on my cheek. It’s better, but still too hollow. Dark under-eyes, dry lips, and my hair–God, my hair is a tangled mess, as if a family of crows made it their home. So long for taking my natural appearance for granted. Where is the softness I used to see reflected back at me? Will I ever feel like me again? Tristan appears in the doorframe, his muscular arm resting near it.

“Don’t,” he groans. “You’re beautiful.” I shake my head, shrugging, because at least I am alive, right? Is he lying, or does he truly find beauty in this erased woman in the mirror? I make my way to the bathtub, open the small door, and stand there as I start to peel off my hospital gown, a wrapped dress held by a single knot at my hip. My fingers untie the clean white knot, and the fabric falls. The air brushes my skin, and Tristan's presence behind me reassures me. No one will hurt me. No one will try to watch me if I do not want them to. I kneel, then sit completely, my back to him as I face the faucet, a framed picture of a beach above us, calm and ethereal, so far from my current mindset. Inhaling deeply, I clap my hands twice, hoping he will not run away, and that my body will not reject his touch, even if it is only my hair. I hear his steps, softer now. Glancing back, I notice he no longer has shoes, only black socks. Kneeling outside of the tub, he turns the faucet on.

“Is it okay?” he asks with a hoarse voice, hand under the tap, testing the temperature as the bathtub fills. My body comes alive when he turns to me with a blank face, his jaw clenching hard, focusing on the white porcelain of the tub, like I asked, and the sole fact makes me want to cry. Because when I saw him in his photo frame at his office the first night we met, I never thought he had that much empathy. He did not seem able to care like that, and still, I was wrong. Because he is proving a point with a capital P, and all I can do is swallow my tears so as not to ruin everything again. I nibble at my lip, realizing I am covering the sides of my chest by curling my arms around my knees.

What is the point of trusting him if I still hide myself like a terrified captive? Tristan is doing so much right now. I have to show him that I trust him, that I am letting my guard down, so I let my arms drop as water runs over my digits, then fingers, then hands. I missed this. The comfort of cleanness. I will never take it for granted ever again.

“Here.” He holds a bottle of soap with a cotton flower on it, opens the lid, and pours it into the palm I offer. Why does everything seem so new, like I have been born again? The little things I used to take for granted, like water and soap, blow my mind, like luxuries. The sole sound of water accompanies us like a soundtrack. Still kneeling near me, I can hear his breathing, as if he is trying to keep himself in check, to breathe normally after a sprint. Pain and silence and longing all stand in the corner, watching us, their presence loud and impossible to ignore. “Can…can I?” Tristan asks, his voice like a balm to my ongoing train of thought. So it still works. His voice still calms me. This has not changed. I give a little dip of the head, glancing at him behind a curtain of my black hair.

“Wait.” He stands smoothly, turns to the sink, and grabs something. Plastic cup. Right. Then he kneels again, sinking the cup in the water behind me and holding it midair. “I’m gonna start. Just snap your fingers if you want me to stop, and I’ll stop immediately.” Water pours over my hair, washing away the hurt like paint disappearing into a drain. He repeats the action a few times as I let my head fall slightly down to help him. Taking the shower gel, he pours it into his hand as I brace for impact.

Cole’s hands on me. Dogs barking until I did not think they could bark anymore, but they would still keep on, and when it finally stopped, I wondered if I had gone deaf or if I was now tuned out of their sound, the invasion finally accepted in my body. I ate like a dog and licked my blood with my own saliva. I stayed up, held at gunpoint, and shivered my way out of sleep. I peed in a bucket they let me use outside the cell once a day, and once I saw a knife on the floor that could help me stop the pain. I wanted to reach for it, but it vanished as my mind shook me back to reality again. I saw the depth of who I was, and it wasn't pretty, and I wasn't strong enough to stay confident and cocky like people in movies. I was nothing like that, nothing but short. Inferior. Small. So small, sometimes I didn't want to live anymore.

I read about writers talking about a storm that made them who they were, but could this storm have taken away who I was and never give it back to me ever again? Have I lost myself in the blizzard for no one to find me ever again? Would…he ever want to find me again? Thick, large palms meet my scalp, hesitantly spreading fingers, waiting for my distress to stop them. I close my eyes and drop my head back. The crash never comes. It is all in your head. All in your head.

I am so tired, Tristan.

Behind my eyes and into my bones.

Fix me, please.

Fix me.

Tristan

If I were a betting man, I’d say God is watching me, having the time of his life while I’m facing the biggest temptation of my existence without having the right to look at it. Well, joke’s on him, because I have already memorized every inch of Ella in all those times I got to spend in her company before today. Minus the bloody dark V scarring her shoulder, but I’ll admit, even with the worst kind of mark on her skin, it does nothing to affect her breathtaking beauty, nor the spell she definitely has on me.

I’ve done my fair share of hard things in my life. Losing my dad. Check. Solitary confinement in juvie causing all sorts of hallucinations. Check. Descending into an underground maze filled with rats to save the woman I love? Been there, done that. Oh, and let’s say love right away, because in my thirty-two years on this earth, I’ve never been so eager to wash anyone’s hair. And also because not only is my phone ringing and my life’s work sinking like the Titanic not bothering me in the least right now, but my sole focus is here, with her, making sure I give her my undivided attention so I can fix this monumental fuckup, this magnitude-ten mistake I made, and regain her trust.

And then, later, when she is clean, fed, and asleep, I’ll worry about myself and my company and my thousands of employees and dozens of shareholders and all their families waiting to know if they still have jobs, and whether the market still believes in the Ashford brand after I literally sold everything I could to the first bidder because time was of the essence. So everything can wait. I’ll have my mental breakdown scheduled later, thank you.

I’m carefully trying, the best way I can, to massage her scalp and wash her hair while ignoring her nakedness, which is turning out to be way harder than I thought, but for my woman, I’ll keep myself in check. I’m expecting her to gasp and push me away, snap her little fingers, and hit me with her silence. Only she doesn’t. One step forward, two steps back. It looks like we are going to do this dance for the foreseeable future, and patience, who used to be a long-gone friend, will have to become my best ally.

I haven’t told her yet that, to keep her doctor allowing me to visit, I had to bribe the fuck out of him since, according to him, I’m not family, and also explain that we are undergoing a police investigation after a hostage situation and that we need his discretion. No idea whether it is his conscience or the two thousand in cash I slid into his coat, but he agreed to give us space. I also haven’t told her that Matt, my personal bodyguard, is outside the door, making sure Cole or anyone from his clan doesn't come near her. My lips remain sealed as I also refrain from calling her sweetheart for the thousandth time since it keeps slipping out of my mouth. Am I still…allowed?

All of this is new and foreign. My usual abilities seem useless, and I’m trying as hard as I can to tap into my, my…feelings, but I’m positive I’m doing a shitty job.

So all I can do now is tend to her and try my best not to have her push me away. That would be a building-sized kind of rejection, and I’m not sure I could handle it right now.

Time passes, and I wish it did not, because touching her, despite not being able to venture into the softness of her skin, is still time I would not want to spend any other way. Her hand rises from the water in the corner of my eyes, eyes that are religiously locked on her silky hair.