Page 29

“How about this then?” Scarlett places her soft palm on my rough cheek, letting her thumb swipe across the corner of my mouth. My lips parts in reaction as I watch her study her thumb before holding it up and showing me the blood from my busted lip.

I shrug and a heavy breath falls from my lips. Our eyes remain locked until she blinks, releasing us both from this invisible hold.

Her hand falls to her lap, pale skin a sharp contrast to her black dress. And then there is the red splatter of my blood on her. I hate seeing her skin tainted with my blood. Then again, it makes me feel something it shouldn’t—something I wish I could deny. Seeing her marked both turns me on and fills me with an overwhelming sense of guilt. But it’s something else too. Pride.

I lift her hand to my lips, very slowly, so she knows my intention. Instead of pulling away, she watches me with quiet curiosity. Sliding her thumb into my mouth, I hold it there, relishing the sweet taste of her skin on my tongue as I swirl it around, licking my blood away.

A tiny moan escapes her lips, and I place a gentle kiss on the tip of her thumb before releasing her hand.

One look into her eyes, filled with desire and looking at me like I’m a knight and shining armor instead of the villain I clearly am… I know without a doubt, I would bleed out every. Last. Drop. Protecting her.

She won’t shy away from my touch, but she needs a comforting one, not one intent on pleasuring her. Thoughts of all the ways I could bring her pleasure cloud my senses, and I remind myself what she’s been through tonight.

“Let’s take a look at that ankle,” I say, my voice barely above whisper. She nods, scooting herself closer to the edge of the counter.

I slip her sandals from her feet, letting my fingertips skim the arch as they come off. Her bare feet dangle, coming to rest right over the tops of my thighs. I scoot up and let her rest them on me. Taking the injured ankle in my hands, I see it’s bruising and gently massage the skin.

She winces again as I work my way down her foot, careful not to press too hard. Seeing the discoloration and knowing that he hurt her makes anger boil beneath the surface once more. I’ll make sure old man Anderson will find out what his son’s been up to. He’s going to fucking pay for putting his hands on her—for marking her.

I switch feet and take the same time and care with her uninjured foot. My fingertips skim up the backs of her calves as I continue kneading the muscles, trying to ease away the tension. Every touch, every caress, every breathless sigh as she falls apart at my touch, I become more tightly coiled. Her head tilts back against the mirror as she grips the counter, her knuckles white. She wants me.

My hands continue their journey across her skin, unable to let go just yet. Her knees fall open in invitation as my palms skim the back of her legs. All it would take is a slight shift and I could taste her. Her dress slides up, and something catches my attention.

On the insides of her thighs, there are bright red marks that start just above the knee and disappear under the hem of black fabric.

My sudden halt in movement has her eyes snapping open and peering down to where my hands are frozen holding her thighs. She looks at her marred skin, then at me, the longing slowly fading from her eyes. “I’m…I didn’t realize. I can’t—we shouldn’t.” She sits back and closes her legs, looking away, clearly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

I swallow a heavy gulp of air, but it never reaches my lungs. It’s not her who should be sorry, it’s me. I saved her from being ravaged only to put my own hands on her. “Don’t apologize.” Standing with a huff, I turn to run the bath. She remains silent as I move around the bathroom that suddenly feels too small.

Looking in a frilly basket by the tub, I grab some lavender smelly shit and dump a bunch in the water. The sweet smell invades my nostrils as it foams and bubbles up in the tub. I keep my back to her and watch the suds grow and grow.

We sit, neither saying anything, the rush of water filling the awkward silence.

“Cohen,” she whispers, and hearing my name fall from her lips in a quiet plea hits me square in the chest. “Are you angry?”

I go back to where she sits and lift her into my arms. “At you? Never.” I carry her and place her next to the clawfoot tub. “Can you stand?” She nods in response.

“At myself? Yes. At him, hell yes.” I step back once I’m sure she’s steady. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I hope so,” she answers, and I’m not sure, but I feel like she means more than just what happened tonight. I hope so too.

“Okay...well, I’ll just be going. I just want to—”

“It’s fine. Please stay. You know…in case I need help after.”

I nod, clearing my throat. Trying to be a gentleman, I turn my back to the tub. I can hear her clothes falling with a gentle whoosh and water sloshing as she climbs into the tub.

“It’s safe,” she calls. That’s what you think.

I turn around, not knowing what to say, or where to look. My eyes move in all directions—everywhere but her and her pale naked skin just below the surface.

“I didn’t need you to save me,” she whispers.

“I know.” I look up at her, careful to hold her gaze and not drop my eyes.

“I’m perfectly capable of saving myself.”

“I know.” I walk toward the tub, drawn to her.