Page 76 of Sinful Bride

I should give him space and let him handle whatever happened tonight on his own, the way he's been handling everything on his own since we got married. But I stand up instead, almost as if I can’t help myself, and walk toward the bathroom. I feel like I'm approaching something dangerous, something that might bite.

He looked destroyed. That's what stops me just outside the door, my hand raised to knock. The expression on his face when he walked past me wasn't anger. It was devastation, so painful to see that my chest aches with it.

I press my palm flat against the door and listen. I can hear water running, then a harsh exhale ending in a curse. He needs to be alone, I tell myself. He doesn't want you in there.

But my hand is already turning the knob.

The bathroom is filled with steam. It billows out when I open the door, smelling of soap and something metallic underneath. Blood. The shower is running, water beating against tile, and through the frosted glass I can see Declan's silhouette. He's still dressed, standing under the spray like he forgot to undress first.

"Declan." My voice comes out very quiet.

He doesn't acknowledge me at all. He just stands there with his head bowed, water streaming over him and turning pink as it washes the blood away.

I close the door behind me, standing there uncertain of what to do.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, his voice rough. "I'm sorry the night was interrupted."

The words are so absurd, considering that he’s covered in blood, that I almost laugh. Almost. But the sound that wants to come out isn't laughter. It's something closer to a sob.

"I don't care about the opera." I move closer to the shower, my bare feet silent on the heated tile. "What happened?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"Declan—"

"I said it's nothing." His voice hardens, but there's no real force behind it. Just exhaustion. "Go to bed, Elena."

I could do that. I could turn around and leave him alone, and go back to pretending we're strangers living in the same house. That's what I've been doing for weeks. That's what's safe.

But suddenly, I can't.

"Let me help you." The words surprise me as much as they probably surprise him.

He goes still. Then, slowly, he turns his head. Through the frosted glass, I can see him looking at me. "Help me?"

"You're still dressed." I gesture at the shower. "You're going to ruin your clothes."

"They're already ruined."

"Then let me help you get them off."

For a long moment, he doesn't move or speak. The water keeps running, steam keeps rising, and I stand there with my heart pounding, wondering what the hell I'm doing.

Then he reaches for the shower door and opens it.

Water streams off him, soaking the bathmat and pooling on the floor. His shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, transparent now, showing the tattoos underneath. His pants are heavy with water, sagging low on his hips. His hair is plastered to his head, copper darkened to rust. And his eyes are so tired. So defeated.

"Why?" he asks quietly.

"Because you need help." I step close enough that the spray from the shower mists my skin. "And because I want to."

"You want to." He says it like he doesn't believe me.

"Yes."

"Why?"

I don’t know exactly how to answer that. "Because you're my husband," I say finally.