Page 190 of These Tears

‘Place it between your legs,’ he murmurs.

A gasp escapes me. A thin, furious haze blurs my vision.

The showerhead feels different in my grip, its weight somehow grounding.

Before I can dress it up as courage, I lift the chrome and turn the spray straight into his face, shoving at his chest with my other hand.

And he?

He merely closes his eyes. The water batters his face, flattening his lashes and streaming through his dark hair. He endures it as if pain, shock and heat belong to a language he learnt before he’d learnt words. Absorbs it. Turns it into penance.

My breathing falters. My pulse misfires.

Because I understand then…

He won’t flinch when the water fills his nose. Not when it lashes his closed eyes. He will stand there and take it for as long as it takes.

Almost reluctantly, my hand with the nozzle falls away, and the spray slips from his face.

Elias drags a palm over his forehead, eyes and mouth, then squeezes water from his hair, bracing himself back against the wall, caging me in with that same abysmal calm as though nothing had happened.

His eyes open.

‘Between your legs, Leah.’

Mortification takes me first. Then indignation. His gaze holds mine captive. He knows I won’t look away, because if I do – he wins. I hate him for knowing that.

The thumb at my knee moves once. Twice. A mockery of tenderness.

‘Slowly,’ he says. ‘Find that little spot… You know the one.’

My grip tightens around the nozzle at my side. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I plead, despising the crack in my voice. ‘I tried to help you through the night, I—’

‘Because you keep looking at me like I’m the only filthy thing in a room.’

His eyes do not soften. If anything, the question strips something in him.

He almost seems offended that I’ve asked it.

My lips part. ‘That’s not true…’ I whisper.

‘Oh, it is,’ he says, ‘and I am. Filthy. So now, I’ll show you what that really feels like.’

Rage climbs my throat so fast I almost choke on it.

I consider throwing the showerhead at his skull. Screaming the house down. Running into the blizzard and letting it take me this time.

But he won’t let this go. It’s in the patience, in the hunger… as if he already knows the end to this and is simply giving me the courtesy of letting me get there on my own.

Nonetheless, there’s one thing that still feels like mine to decide: I slow it down. Make him wait. Lower that damn nozzle by degrees as I hold his eyes.

That barest twitch of his hand feels like a meagre triumph. Because he knows what I’m doing.

Regardless, I own the pace now.

When the pressure hits, my teeth lock together so hard my jaw clicks. A relentless burn devours me instantly, stealing the strength from the leg I’m standing on before I can even hate it properly. My knee buckles, and I’m suddenly grateful he still has my other leg hooked against his waist.

I try to make my body silent, but a shiver breaks loose anyway.