Page 70 of The Devil’s Feather

It definitely wasn’t like the fights on TV. If the people who organized those events knew Rafael hurt people that badly, why did they let him keep coming back? Just for the bloodsports and betting of it all?

Ross left after the fight ended, privately extracting from me a promise that I’d call him if Rafael ever got to be too much. A common refrain. Was I the only person who believed in this man? But fair enough, after the unmitigated violence we’d just witnessed.

As we entered the apartment, Rafael groaned and peeled off his shirt. Blotches of purple and green bloomed along one side—the injured ribs, I assumed. Unwinding the tape from his hands, he kicked off his shoes and socks and shuffled stiffly off to the bathroom. He took his hair down as he turned on the shower. His shorts landed in the corner with a clack, followed by the leggings.

Rafael stood under the water with his hands planted against the wall. Steamed filled the room as blood swirled down the drain.

I lingered just outside. “Can I join you?”

“Yes,” he said so softly I almost didn’t hear it.

I stripped and stepped in. He moved over to let me get under the water, though it wasn’t necessary.

“Can I bathe you?” I held up a bar of olive oil soap and a mildly scratchy washcloth.

“Yes.” He leaned out of the shower door and grabbed a different washcloth.

The replacement was soft, and I lathered it with soap. Rafael bent so I could wipe the remnants of blood from his face. I let him handle his throat, and worked my way across the hills and valleys of his shoulders, chest, and abdomen, taking extra care over his ribs. I paused when I reached his pubic hair.

“You may touch me,” he said, eyes closed.

Still, I hesitated. This was a huge amount of trust. I kept the washcloth between my hand and his skin as a barrier. With slow, gentle swipes, I washed his heavy cock and balls, watching his face the whole time for any hint of discomfort. He hardly stirred under my touch. Unsurprising, with that much exhaustion.

I soaped down his legs to his feet, and he lifted each one at my prodding. He turned, and I washed his back the same way, with the same permission to touch his ass.

Once he was squeaky clean, I hugged him from behind, resting my head against his back.

He laid a hand over mine. “Will you wash my hair?”

Somehow, it was the most intimate thing he’d ever requested. The sheer trust filled me with warmth. I moved the shower bench, and he sat with his back to me. Working the shampoo into his scalp, I combed it slowly and carefully through hair that had reverted once more to ringlets. He murmured contented sounds at my touch. Conditioner followed. The products had a pleasingly subtle herbaceous scent.

I soaped myself off quickly as he climbed out, and found him leaning against the wall, half-asleep. “Come on, big guy. We need to at least partially dry all that hair. Sit.”

He obeyed as though sleepwalking. I worked the hair oil into his curls, as I’d seen him do, and used the fancy Dyson hairdryer I found under the sink. Even with a tool that powerful, it still took a while to get his hair just damp rather than sopping. The more it dried, the more the curls relaxed and lengthened into waves.

He was almost swaying in the seat by the time I finished. I made him stay long enough to treat his busted knuckles. They weren’t as bad as they looked, just superficial cuts, but as he’d said—infections were not sexy. He brushed his teeth while I cleaned, medicated, and bandaged them, and kissed each one for good measure.

Rafael dragged himself off the seat and staggered into the bedroom. He collapsed face-first on the mattress with his feet hanging off the edge.

I climbed in beside him. “You’re really coming down hard. Are you ok?”

He cracked open one eye and wormed his way farther onto the bed. I stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

A vibration ran through the bed, waking me in total darkness. An earthquake? Beside me, Rafael made a soft, distressed noise and shivered. I laid a hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered, gasping. He barked something in Turkish and rolled away from me.

Fuck, was this a night terror? I scooted away from him—not a moment too soon, as he kicked and slapped at the duvet, muttering under his breath.

“Rafael, I’m here. You’re ok. It’s just a bad dream,” I crooned. “Calm down. You’re safe.”

He hammered the bed with his fists, kicking harder. I kept up my stream of encouragement, talking to him like I’d talk to a scared cat. He thrashed, throwing off the covers. Each time I moved on the mattress, he whipped his head toward me, grumbling. I perched carefully on the edge of the bed and waited it out. Finally, he stilled into normal sleep.

I woke up the next morning to Rafael’s head resting on my belly and his arms around my legs. How sweet. The second I rested a hand on his head, he sat up and winced, touching his ribs.

“Oh no, are they really broken?”

“Hard to say without an X-ray. Recovery is the same, so it does not matter.” His voice was still oddly flat.

“Can I wrap them for you? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for broken ribs?”