JULIAN
The ride back to my penthouse is silent. Elliot stares out the window, his face blank, eyes distant. I’ve seen shock before—the hollow gaze, the mechanical movements—but seeing it on Elliot hits me differently.
When we arrive, I guide him through the lobby with my hand at the small of his back. His body moves on autopilot. The doorman nods respectfully, his eyes widening slightly at Elliot’s disheveled appearance, but knowing better than to comment.
“Almost there,” I murmur as we step into the elevator. Elliot doesn’t respond.
Inside my penthouse, I lead him to the couch. He sits without protest, his hands limp in his lap, still smelling faintly of smoke.
“Elliot?” I crouch in front of him, searching his face. His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away. “I’m going to run you a bath.”
No response.
I squeeze his knee gently before heading to the master bathroom. The marble tub—large enough for two—takes up one corner beneath floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I start the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s just shyof too hot. From the cabinet, I select bath salts that promise relaxation and pour them generously under the running water.
Steam rises, fogging the windows and mirrors. I add a few drops of lavender oil—something I keep for my rare moments of self-indulgence. The scent fills the room, calming even to me.
When I return to the living room, Elliot hasn’t moved. His gaze is fixed on something I can’t see.
“Bath’s ready,” I say softly.
He blinks slowly, then looks up at me. “She took everything.”
I reach for his hand. “Not everything. Come on.”
I help him stand, surprised by how pliant he is. This isn’t the stubborn gallery owner who challenged me at every turn during the Hunt. This is someone else—someone broken.
“Let’s get these clothes off you,” I say, gently unbuttoning his shirt. “They smell like smoke.”
I help Elliot out of his clothes, noting how he allows me to undress him without protest—no shy glances or remarks. Just empty compliance. It’s unsettling. This is not the man who fought me at every turn during the Hunt, whose surrender I had to earn.
“Step in,” I murmur, steadying him as he climbs into the tub.
He sinks into the water with a small sigh—the first sign he’s still present somewhere inside himself. The water rises around his chest as he leans back, his eyes fixed on some invisible point across the room.
I roll up my sleeves and kneel beside the tub, reaching for the washcloth and soap. This isn’t what I’d planned when I imagined having Elliot in my bathroom. There’s nothing sexual about this moment.
“I’m going to wash you, okay?” I say, not expecting an answer.
He nods almost imperceptibly. Permission granted.
I dip the cloth into the warm water and rub it against the soap until it lathers. Starting with his shoulders, I move in gentle circles. His muscles are tense beneath my touch, holding the weight of everything he’s lost.
“She knew exactly how to hurt me,” he whispers, still staring ahead.
I pause, the cloth resting against his collarbone. “I know.”
I continue washing him, one arm at a time, each finger individually cleaned. This level of care feels foreign, yet somehow essential.
When I reach his face, I tilt his chin toward me with tenderness I didn’t know I was capable of. His eyes finally focus on mine, filled with such profound loss that I almost feel his hurt. I wipe away the tear tracks, which are remnants of his mother’s cruelty.
After the bath, I wrap Elliot in a plush towel and dry his skin. His body moves mechanically under my guidance.
“Let’s get you into something comfortable,” I say, leading him to my bedroom.
I rummage through my dresser, pulling out a soft gray T-shirt and black sweatpants—clothes I reserve for those rare nights when even I need to drop the facade of perfection.
“Arms up,” I instruct.
