He wipes his hand on the rag, then loops one arm under my knees, and the other around my back. Before I can protest, he’s lifting me off the table and crossing the room.
“I can walk, Weston,” I say, trying to wiggle out of his arms, but he only holds me tighter, his chest vibrating against my shoulder with a low grumble.
How long is he going to stay mad before he talks to me again?
He yanks the door open and steps out into the hallway, only to be met by Sig leaning against the opposite wall. She straightens when we emerge, eyes flying over me, and her shoulders sag in relief when she realizes I’m not seriously hurt.
“Cap—”
“Go to bed Signee.”
“Stop being an asshole,” I mutter so only he can hear me.
A harsh huff of a laugh escapes him as he bounds up the stairs, his angry footsteps echoing through the decks all the way to our room. The door slams behind him, making me jump when he kicks it closed. I should have expected it. He hasn’t closed anything quietly since we’ve been back on this ship, but it feels different now that we’re alone.
It’s not the same alone as in the infirmary when he was focused on a task. Something tells me the time of no talking is coming to an end, and I’m going to have to face his anger now that I’m no longer hurt.
Crossing the room, he strides straight to the tub, pulling me in tighter to his chest as he leans forward and turns the knob. Water splashes into the porcelain, the sound breaking the tense silence, and steam rises into the air. I always bathe before bed, at least I have after every shift out on the island, and it’s apparent how much he pays attention to my moves and patterns. I almost protest, saying I’ll use the crew showers because using this tub feels like too much, but I keep my mouth shut. He doesn’t want to let me out of his sight, and after disappearing before, I can’t say I blame him.
Stepping away from the edge, he finally lowers me down, releasing my legs first and supporting my back so my injured feet meet the ground gently. The shallow cuts are mostly healed by now, the salve working so quickly paired with whateverpotion I drank for my head. I flatten my feet on the floor, flexing my toes and feeling no pain.
Weston disappears behind the screen, and the thud of the trunk sounds loudly through the room. He’s back in the next moment, holding his shirt,myshirt, and drapes it over a wooden bench next to the screen.
“I’m not leaving,” he says gruffly, his hands on his hips and his eyes still looking anywhere but at me. He gestures to the room on the other side of the screen. “I’ll be over here when you’re done. And then you’ve got some explaining to do, princess.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Knowing that Weston is just on the other side of that screen makes my skin tingle as I peel myself out of my Voyager clothes and step into the tub. The sharp burn of the water is welcoming as I sink my shoulders below the surface. I wasn’t planning on having time to collect my thoughts before Weston forced the inevitable conversation on me, but I’m thankful for it.
So I take my time, soaking in the tub, letting the heat break down every single tremor in my muscles from the fight earlier this evening as I go through everything I learned, and find the right words to explain what happened.
Dane convinced me that Weston was a monster, and the Castaways were complicit in his schemes, when, in fact, it has been him all along. He’s the one who had been biding his time, waiting for someone to find the healing waters so he could take them for himself.
To heal my mother, the woman he loves.
A hole opens in my chest as I remember what Dane said. It was too easy for him to trick and manipulate me, all because I wanted to be loved. I fell right into his hands, a willing pawn that fell prey to all his words and touches.
Did I do the same thing with Weston? Have I misinterpreted every look, every touch, every conversation? Are my feelings for him real, or is he just another man who has tricked me into loving him because he gave me a scrap of attention?
I hate that Dane’s words have affected me this way, casting doubt over everything I felt for someone else and making me question myself. He’s cruel, his intentions made that clear, and he should not have any effect on me from this point forward, but I can’t stop the echo of them in the back of my mind.
Footsteps reverberate off the walls, drawing my attention.
He’s pacing.
I’ve been sitting here immersed in my thoughts long enough for the water to cool, and Weston must be getting impatient. I can’t avoid the conversation any longer, and I won’t run away. Going back to camp may not have been easy on everyone I left behind, but my intentions were real, and I was coming home. I couldn’t let the opportunity to help everyone here pass by. He needs to understand that.
I grab a sponge off the small table next to the tub and douse it with soap. The water sloshes slightly as I sit up and scrub my skin raw, washing away any reminder of everywhere Dane touched me. I dunk my head under the surface and wash my hair, rinsing the suds from my waves and running some oil through them before I step out of the tub. Weston is still pacing, and thank the gods no one lives under his room because the angry pounding of his feet would wake even the heaviest sleepers.
I towel off quickly, squeezing all the extra water from my hair, and grab hold of my sleep shirt, slipping it over my head. The fabric feels soft and fresh against my clean and sensitive skin, and my shoulders relax with the comfort.
I made it home. No matter how badly this conversation goes and how angry he is with me, I’m where I belong. I need sleepafter the whirlwind that has been these past few days. If it wasn’t for the anticipation of this fight with Weston, I’d walk straight over to the bed and collapse into it, letting the exhaustion overtake me.
Please don’t let me have any nightmares tonight.
I barely make it past the screen before Weston turns on me, his pacing immediately halted and his eyes wild.
“What were you thinking?” he says brusquely.
