Page 189 of Ashborne: Defiance

Her frown deepened. I got to my feet with a whispered assurance that I’d return quickly, then hurried over to pull a clean sleep-shirt out of the pile on the shelf, then grab the wash basin and pitcher laid out with a small towel in the corner. I knew she’d forgotten the blood on her leathers. It was hard to see in this dim light, but I needed to get her out of them before she noticed again and was returned to that horror.

And that meant undressing her.

I told myself I wouldn’t look. Couldn’t let my body respond. That this was no different than battlefield healing. No intimacy, only necessity. She needed out of those clothes and to be free of the evidence of what had happened. She would sleep better if she was clean. The water would be cold. But that would help bring her back to the here and now. I hoped.

My hands shook as I folded the shirt over my arm, then picked up the pitcher and filled the bowl. Maybe I was the one who needed the cold water.

Shit.

When I turned back to her, she stood next to the bed, eyes wide, her expression pleading. All thoughts of anything beyond helping flew out of my head.

“Can you take your hair down?” I asked softly, placing the bowl at her feet and straightening. I would work on her jacket buttons and get the messy leather off her, while she focused on her hair.

She didn’t respond, but reached up to her braid, then let her fingers follow the length of it to the end, where she used her nails on the knotted leather tie. I made fast work of her buttons, speaking slowly and calmly, trying to keep her mind on the task, rather than the dread.

When she turned her head to frown at the leather that didn’t want to release, I took her hand and extended her arm down so I could pull the sleeve off it, then walked around behind her to do the same with the other sleeve. Then I stayed there, so I wouldn’t see her when she was bare.

Her lips were tight, pursed, brow furrowed as she struggled with the leather knot in her hair.

Thankfully, I had the jacket off and folded so the blood couldn’t be seen by the time she made a little noise in her throat.

Leaning over her, I caught her hands at the wrists. She went still.

“Let me,” I said, swallowing when she dropped her hands. It took a few moments, but I finally loosened the knot in her hair and tugged it free.

The bottom strands of the braid sagged apart, but only a few inches before the thick hair held. Without thinking, I clawed fingers into it, pulling through the satin strands. My chest tightening as Grace’s shoulders dropped and her head sagged forward.

Swallowing to wet my throat, using both my hands, I combed through the thick, golden strands that were darker underneath, pulling the braid apart in long, careful strokes. And when the last of her hair fell loose, I raked fingers through it, starting on her scalp and running them down her neck and through the hair that fell to the hollow of her back, now that it was free of the tight constraint.

She’d braided it still wet, and the hair was damp underneath. It was such a small detail, so intimate, it shortened my breath.

Stunned by the sheer relief coursing through me as Grace slowly relaxed under my touch, I prayed I wouldn’t break the reverie as she sighed and her shoulders slumped, some of the tension finally leaving her.

“Unbutton your shirt,” I rasped, then cleared my throat. “I’ll stay back here. I won’t look.”

She followed my instructions without protest—and without comment. I helped her tug the shirt out of her leathers, then did my best to focus on taking the clothes and getting them away, reaching forward to offer a steadying arm to grip when she tugged her legs out of the trousers.

Squatting behind her, I wet the cloth in the bowl and didn’t let myself look as I held it up in front of her. “Here.”

She took it and began to pat at her stomach while I bunched up the dirty clothes and placed them near the ladder where I could take them down when I left. But when I turned, even though I kept my eyes averted, it was impossible not to see that she was at a loss, staring at herself, barely touching her skin with the small towel.

Taking hold of myself and snarling at my body to control itself, I hurried to her and took the rag from her, dropping to plunge it into the water again.

“Let me,” I said hoarsely.

Thank God her hair had slipped over her shoulders when she looked down, and covered most of her breasts.

It was little more than a battle wash. I tried to ignore that her pale skin flushed everywhere the cold, rough fabric rubbed. But I had to touch her, had to follow the beautiful lines of her body. And it was impossible not to see the bruises and scrapes everywhere.

I wanted to curse. I wanted to punch something when I passed, as gently as possible, over the red, purple, and brownish bruises on every limb and curve.

She didn’t complain. I hadn’t seen her limp—though that awful bruise now greening on her thigh had to have been horribly painful a week ago.

I kept moving.

Clean her skin. Wipe the grime. Loosen hair. Tell the body it’s safe now. Clean. Unmarred by events. And the moment I was sure there weren’t any tell-tale smears on her skin, I dropped the cloth into the water and picked up the sleep-shirt, shaking it out and putting it over her head, then pulling her hair out of the neck as she lifted her arms and pushed them through the sleeves.

Then she stood there, barefoot, shivering, and staring into the dark, her mouth turned down at the sides.