Page 143 of Bleed

Chapter

Thirty

The last of the blood swirls down the shower drain at my feet, circling in angry red streaks before finally surrendering to the current and disappearing. My skin’s scrubbed raw, and the steam in the bathroom is thick enough to choke on at this point. I breathe it in anyway, letting it fill up my lungs and crowd out the memory of Vincent’s body going slack while his head remained in Elliott’s grip.

That shit’s not washing out so easily.

Elliott’s arms slide around my waist from behind, and I lean back into him, closing my eyes as the heat and exhaustion finally start to bleed out some of the tension in my muscles.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, a little too gentle for a guy who just tore another man’s head off with his bare hands.

I crack one eye open and glance down at the water swirling the drain. “Define okay,” I mutter.

He stiffens against me. I don’t think he quite knows how to handle it when I joke about trauma.

I turn in his arms until I’m facing him, my nipples brushing his chest as the spray from the shower pelts us both, washing our sins away. Elliott Faulkner might’ve just killed a man, but he looks like a damn Calvin Klein model right now with his wet hair slicked back and his jaw set tight. He’s so much bigger than me, with more power in one hand than I possess in my entire body. That imbalance should probably scare me, but it doesn’t. Especially not when he’s wielding his strength in my defense.

I place both palms flat against his broad chest, tipping my chin up. “You just decapitated someone right in front of me, Eli. You don’t seriously expect me to bounce back from that right away, do you?”

His brow furrows. “It’d be concerning if you did.”

“Exactly,” I cluck. “So please stop treating me like I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown. I’ll be fine, I just need to… not think about it for a while.”

His dark eyes search my face, and I can tell he’s about to launch into some sort of dissertation on the proper way to process witnessing a traumatic event.

Hard pass.

Therapists tried to do that after I lost my parents, but my child brain completely blocked out the memory of the night they died. Being tossed into the foster system after was trauma enough. I developed my own coping mechanism– humor and avoidance– and it’s worked just fine until now.

I slide my hands up to his shoulders, tilting my head. “Now that we’re clean, I know something that’ll help me turn my brain off…” My lips curl into a smirk as I trail off, the implication clear.

He reaches past me to twist the tap and kill the water. The sudden silence that follows is weirdly loud, and for a moment we just stand there dripping wet, crowding one another’s space. I expect him to either lecture me or let me go, but instead, he sweeps me up into his arms, carrying me out of the shower like I’m some kind of princess. It’s so unexpected that I shriek, instinctively squirming against his grip.

“Damn, warn a bitch!” I scold, smacking his chest.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he sets me down on the bathmat, reaching for a towel and proceeding to pat every inch of my skin dry. Then he wraps the towel around me and grabs another for himself, rubbing it over his body while I stand back and shamelessly watch.

I’ve never seen skin like his before. There’s not a single freckle, scar, or imperfection– just taut, smooth flesh stretched over toned muscle. My gaze lingers on the curve of his biceps, the dips of his abs, the thick line of his cock hanging heavy between his legs. He’s a beautiful, beautiful man, and I’ll stare any chance I get.

He wraps the towel around his waist, slicking his hair back before reaching for his glasses on the bathroom vanity. I dart a hand out to stop him, and he pauses as my fingers graze his wrist, glancing down at me in question.

I give a little shake of my head. “Not tonight.”

“You don’t like them?” he asks, brows drawing in.

“I love them,” I reply honestly. “They make you look like a naughty professor, which, for the record, is now my official type.”

His mouth twitches.

“Just… not right now,” I say, struggling to articulate why this suddenly feels important.

He wears those glasses to project a certain persona to the world, but I don’t need the polished, professional version of him. I need the raw one; the man he is behind the mask.

I roll my lower lip between my teeth, staring up at him. “I want to see the real you.”

He stares back at me for a long moment, then dips his chin in a nod, letting his hand drop.

“You win, little mortal,” he murmurs, beckoning me with a flick of his head as he turns toward the door.