And I hate it.
I hate how my body leans into his touch. I hate how safe his hands feel right now, especially after everything he’s done to me this morning.
“Why are you being so gentle?” I whisper, my voice shaky.
His lips brush against my wet shoulder, barely a kiss. “Because you’re mine,” he murmurs against my skin. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
His hands keep moving, slow, sensual, soapy strokes over my thighs, my hips, the curve of my waist. He washes every bruise, every scrape, every mark he left on me with the same careful attention.
It’s terrifying.
Because for the first time, I’m not sure which version of him is more dangerous, the brutal one who fucks me against trees … or this one. The same hands that pinned me to a tree five minutes ago are now carefully working tangles out of my hair, his fingers moving slowly and methodically through the wet strands.
I don't understand him. I don't understand any of this.
I turn around and face him and let the water run down my back. His chest is right in front of me, and I can see every scar up close, every mark, every tattoo. There's a lot of ink. Black and gray work covers his arms, chest, and shoulders. A snake winding up his left forearm. Roman numerals across his ribs. Then there’s what looks like a cross on his back.
I reach out without thinking and trace a burn mark on his ribs. "Where did this come from?"
He looks down at my hand on his skin. "A man who thought fire would make me talk."
"Did it?"
"No."
I move to the other scars. "These?"
"Prison." He says it flatly. No story, no elaboration.
My fingers travel up his arm to a line of Greek text on his inner bicep. The letters are clean and black against his skin. I trace the word with my fingertip.
"What does this say?"
He watches my finger move across the letters. His face shifts, a flicker behind his eyes that's gone before I can name it. "It's a name."
"Whose name?"
"Someone who means the most to me."
My finger stops, and I pull my hand back. A hot, ugly feeling twists in my stomach that I refuse to call jealousy. "Is it a woman?"
He nods.
"Who is she?"
He doesn't answer. The water runs over both of us, the steam is thick in the air, and he just looks at me with those amber eyes and says nothing.
"Who is she, Kairo?"
“Someone important, that’s all you need to know,” he states flatly.
“I’m your wife. Tell me who she is?” I demand.
"Get on your knees." His voice drops, and the softness is gone, just like that, wiped clean like it was never there.
"Excuse me?" I’m confused by the sudden change.
"Jealousy looks good on you, Summer." He grips the back of my neck and pushes down, not hard enough to force me, but hard enough that my knees bend on instinct. "Now open your mouth. I need to shut you up."
