Page 187 of These Tears

—directly towards the shower room.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I snarl quietly.

My mouth parts. I blink rapidly to rid myself of the haze.

‘Demons,’ he says, as though the word is an explanation, a confession and a defence. ‘Filthy ones.’

He starts herding me backwards.

One step.

Another.

The sliding doorframe passes my shoulder, and cold tile replaces the wooden floor beneath my socks. I don’t realise he has backed me into the shower room until his hand lifts past my head and the light snaps on.

White, merciless glare bounces off the tiles, claiming the last of the softness from his face.

My back hits the wall.

‘Luckily,’ he breathes, both hands coming up between us until I can only smell woodsmoke in his hair and fresh pine on his skin, ‘filth can be washed off.’

A beat.

A breath.

His hand disappears below my vision. Click-clack – he lifts the showerhead from its holder on the wall.

‘Elias—’ is the only thing that makes it out of my mouth when he dips his head and tilts my chin with the top of the curved chrome.

‘I suggest,’ he murmurs, ‘you lose the clothes.’

My soul leaves me.

‘They might not dry by morning. You might have to walk around naked, then. And Leah—’ He bends closer. The back of my head presses against the wall as he rests his forehead against mine. ‘—you will.’

I consider refusing for a single, stupid, reckless second.

Then I remember how every threat that leaves his mouth is already halfway done.

A spike of urgency shoots through me. My fingers jerk to the hem of my jumper before sense can rot into courage. I drag it over my head too fast, the cold air biting my skin as the wool drops at my feet. My hands reach for the button of my jeans next. His eyes remain on them while the button slips between my fingers.

I push the denim down, breathing too hard, too loudly, until I step out of the jeans.

His gaze falls to the pale curve of my shoulder, the light blue strap of my bra glinting over it, ridiculously fragile under the force of his attention.

His voice lowers. ‘Everything, Leah.’

Reaching behind, my hands fumble with the clasp as if it were a cruel puzzle. When it finally gives, the straps slip down my arms, and humiliation rushes in so wildly my hands fly to my chest all on their own.

Elias begins to tilt towards me before the bra hits the floor, one hand planting against the wall beside my head as his shadow cuts the light from me.

He looks down. Not hungrily or rushed. He does it as if cataloguing every tremor I fail to hide, memorising the shape of me.

My fingers stall at my sides. I can’t make them push my underwear lower.

When his eyes lock with mine, I feel that featherlight sensation before he gently claims my hand. He guides it down until his fingers wrap around mine and hook my thumb beneath the waistband. Then he begins to push.

His cheek comes against mine, warm against skin chilled by the room and the tiles at my spine. His mouth is close enough that the word moves over my pebbled flesh before it even reaches my brain. ‘Lower.’