I consider the question. My body aches in places I forgot existed. There’s a soreness between my legs that’s almost pleasant, a dull throb that reminds me of everything that happened. My skin feels oversensitive and raw.
But underneath all of that, there’s something else. A hollowness. An emptiness that doesn’t make sense when I spent the last four days being filled.
“Weird,” I say.
“Weird how?”
“Just weird.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Silas says that’s normal. The drop after a heat. Your body is recalibrating.”
I crack one eye open and peer up at him. He looks rough—stubble darker than usual, shadows under his eyes, a scratch down his shoulder that I don’t remember making. But his expression is soft. Tender in a way that makes my chest ache.
“You stayed,” I whisper.
“Of course I stayed.”
I push myself up onto my elbows. The nest of clothes shifts around me, and the air hits my bare skin, cool and unfamiliar. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. I want to crawl back under the fabric and never come out.
Griffin seems to sense it. “You hungry?”
“Not yet.”
“You need to eat something. Silas made soup.”
“In a minute.”
He nods and doesn't push. That's one of the things I've always loved about Griffin—his ability to read me, to know when to push and when to back off. The years apart didn't change that.
“Can you help me to the bathroom?” I ask. The words come out small, and I hate how small they sound.
He doesn't comment on it. He just stands, pulls one of the larger shirts from the nest—Damon's flannel—and wraps it around me, buttoning it enough to cover me. Then he lifts me like I weigh nothing and carries me down the hall.
The bathroom is small and warm. The mirror is fogged, the tub still damp from someone’s recent shower. Griffin sets me on the closed toilet lid and turns on the tap in the sink, testing the temperature.
“I can wash you,” he offers. “If you want.”
I nod.
He wets a washcloth and kneels in front of me. His hands are steady as he unbuttons the flannel, pushing it off my shoulders, exposing my skin inch by inch. I fight the urge to cover myself. He’s seen every part of me over the last four days. He’s been inside every part of me. There’s no logical reason to feel shy now.
But I do. I feel shy and exposed and so overwhelmingly aware of the marks covering my body. The bite on my collarbone, already fading to purple. The bruises on my hips where hands gripped too hard. The tender spot between my thighs.
Griffin notices me looking. His gaze follows mine, and his jaw tightens—not with anger, but with something that looks like regret.
“I was too rough,” he murmurs.
“You weren’t.”
“Caroline—”
“You weren’t, Griffin. I asked for it. All of it. I wanted it.” I meet his eyes. “Don’t apologize for giving me what I needed.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods and brings the washcloth to my neck, wiping gently. The fabric is warm against my skin, and I close my eyes as he works his way down my shoulders, my arms, the dip of my collarbone. He’s careful around the marks, skirting them with a tenderness that makes something crack open in my chest.
When he reaches my breasts, I suck in a breath. My nipples tighten under the warm cloth, and Griffin pauses, his hand hovering.
“Okay?”
