Page 54 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I kneel before him, run warm water over a washcloth, and clean away the last of the mess clinging to his inner thighs. He covers his face with his hands at first, but I hold him steady, and eventually he screws his courage together and lets me work in silence. His pulse flutters beneath my fingers.

I stand, then instruct him to turn.

I lather shampoo in my hands and work it through his hair, nails gentle at his scalp. He softens under the touch and even leans back against my hands, a purr of pleasure humming in his chest. I rinse him, then do it again, because I have never been allowed to do this for anyone, and in some strange and unexpected way, I find myself savoring it.

I soap his shoulders, his arms, his back—each time my hand passes over a bruise or abrasion, I am filled with a proprietary pride. He is marked everywhere I touched him, evidence that he survived what I gave and wanted more.

He stands facing the shower wall, his head bowed, letting the water run in sheets down his body. I reach for the bar of soap, but he intercepts my hand, fingers wrapping my wrist.

“I can do the rest,” he says quietly.

I study his profile. He is not asking for privacy so much as mercy.

I nod and step back. “I’ll get you something to drink,” I tell him. “When you’re finished, come to the bedroom.”

He says nothing, but as I towel myself dry and dress, I hear the careful rhythm of his own movements. He is rebuilding himself.

I go to the kitchen and pour cold water into two glasses. I slice a peach and arrange the pieces on a plate; fruit and water are the best cure for syncope, for the post-adrenaline crash.

When I return with the water and fruit, Ryan is already out of the shower, standing on the bath mat, towel hitched low on his hips. The bruises at his neck have darkened to a wine-stain purple, my handiwork rendered in unrepentant color. He’s brushed his hair flat and slick, exposing the long sweep of his jaw, the faint shadow under his chin. He looks unsteady but determined, and also—absurdly—like he’s preparing to flee.

He startles when he notices me, but catches himself. “Hey.”

I set the glasses and the plate on the vanity. “You are finished so soon?”

His mouth twists. “Yeah. I, uh, must use less product than you.”

He reaches for his overshirt, shrugs it on over bare skin, and fumbles for his shorts I left on the counter. “I’ve got to get going, by the way. I’m… supposed to call my brother.”

We both know he does not have a brother.

I step in front of the door, not to bar it, but to force his attention. “You shouldn’t leave so soon after. You will feel worse after a few minutes.”

He tugs the towel free, friction-roughing the skin at his neck, then wraps it around his hair. “I’m literally fine.”

I pick up the glass and hand it to him. “Drink.”

He scowls at the water, then at me, but drinks. His lashes cling together in wet spikes, and his lips are still swollen from where he bit them—again, my fault. These marks, this aftermath, are all that’s left of me on him, and I hate that he’s already working to scrub them away.

“It’s not like I didn’t have dinner,” he mutters.

“It is not about food,” I say. “It is a chemical thing. You will crash and feel bad.”

He pretends to ignore the peach slices, but his eyes linger on them before skipping away.

“You don’t have to do the aftercare routine with me, Camille,” he says, voice flat. “I know the drill. I’ll be fine.”

I cross my arms and lean against the vanity, watching him get dressed as if at any moment he might vanish. “You are used to being choked and fisted?” I ask skeptically.

He chokes on air, then splutters, “No, of course not—I just… I’m just fine. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“It would be best—”

“Camille.” He finishes the water in two gulps and sets the glass back with a clang. “Not to be a dick, but… I should really go. I don’t need anything more from you than sex.”

A long, cool moment passes between us, the kind that usually precedes the click of a lock rather than an invitation closer. I consider whether to press the issue and force him to acknowledge how much he craves care, or whether to let him slip away, pretending that what we did wasn’t a disassembly and reassembly of his entire self.

But there are agreements, after all, and I have always preferred the precise honor of contracts over the mess of human emotion.