He holds me in his arms, on his lap.
And for some reason, it’s okay.
I’m still bleeding, but if he doesn’t care, neither do I.
He grins at me, his eyes warm and affectionate. "Listen," he murmurs, "if you think a man like me is afraid of a little blood, it’s like you don’t know me at all."
My cheeks flush in embarrassment.
I note the way he tips a cup of warm water over my head, little droplets trickling down my face.
I sigh contentedly, and when I do, he keeps going.
"Feels good," I whisper.
He runs a soft washcloth over my shoulders, my neck, and under the water, over the curves of my body.
Between my legs.
Over my tender breasts.
Across my back and up again.
He rinses and repeats.
Rinses and repeats.
And when the waves of pain come again, he shifts me, turning me over so I’m held in his left arm, resting across his shoulder.
His other hand spans my back again, pressing steady and firm until the pain passes.
And I think I might love this man.
We stay in the tub until the water grows cold.
I shiver.
"Do you want more hot water?" he asks quietly.
I shake my head. "No. I wanna go back to bed. Please."
"You don’t have to be polite," he says with a smirk. "Just bark out orders. This is the one time you’re the one in charge."
"You might regret that," I say teasingly.
I earn a rare smile and flash of white teeth. "That’s my girl," he says quietly. "There she is. You must be feeling better."
That’s my girl.
I never knew how much those words could mean to me.
He pulls the plug on the drain, and I watch the water swirl down, shivering.
Then he wraps a towel around his waist, then one around me, and carries me to the bedroom.
The bed is freshly made.
Polina sits in a chair by the little desk in the corner, tapping something out on her phone.
