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He gently brushes my hair back from my forehead. The touch is so careful, so soft, that my eyes burn with fresh tears.
“I need to check that you washed everything away,” he says, careful enough not to startle me. “Okay?”
I nod.
His fingers move to my hairline, brushing through the damp strands with careful attention. “Did you wash your hair in the shower?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Three times. With the clarifying shampoo.”
His touch moves to the nape of my neck, fingers ruffling the short strands of hair. “What about behind your ears?”
“Yes.”
His fingers comb through the damp strands with meticulous attention. Nothing about the examination is intimate, yet the care behind it leaves me raw. As though I’m precious. As though I’m worth preserving.
Finally, his hands drop to my shoulders. “You did well, trouble. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The simple statement cracks my chest wide open, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making any noise. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not after my parents died. Not when Alexei took over the family business. Not the first time I killed someone.
I’ve always been told to be strong and not show emotion, because that’s a sign of weakness.
Orien’s thumb brushes across my lower lip where my teeth have left an impression. “Don’t do that. You’ve been through enough.”
His gentleness undoes me. A sob breaks free before I can stop it, followed by another, and suddenly I’m crying again, tears streaming down my cheeks as my body shakes with the force of it.
Orien doesn’t pull away or tell me to stop or pull myself together. He just sits beside me, rubbing my back and making soothing sounds as he waits for the storm to pass.
It takes longer than it should. Longer than I want it to. But eventually, the tears slow, then stop, leaving me hollow and wrung out and mortified to have broken down in front of this strong Alpha.
“I’m sorry,” I manage past the knot in my throat. “I don’t usually—”
“Stop.” His hand slides from my shoulder to cup my nape. “Just…stop.”
I lean into his touch, and his thumb traces a slow circle at the base of my skull.
“We’re not done yet,” he says after a moment. “But we’re close.”
Too tired to speak, I nod against his palm.
Orien gives me a gentle squeeze before he pulls away to stand. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
On his way to the bathroom, the broad line of his back and the square set of his shoulders hold my attention. He moves with the same unhurried confidence that first caught my attention, compelling a second look when I should have been gathering intelligence and moving on.
He returns a moment later with a small leather case. “Sit up. I need to check your hands.”
I push myself upright, still clutching the stuffed fox, and the movement sends a fresh wave of dizziness through me.
Orien sits beside me again, closer this time, and reaches for my right hand, his fingers sliding over the pads of my fingertips, between my digits, and over my palms.
“Hold still. This won’t take long.” He opens the leather case to reveal a pair of nail clippers, a small file, and a set of tweezers.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.
Orien raises one eyebrow. “Problem?”
“I already scrubbed my hands raw in the shower. There aren’t any traces left.”
Instead of answering, he picks up the tweezers and bends over my hand, his focus absolute as he works a tiny sliver of glass from the crease of my thumb. It comes free with a sting, and Orien holds it up to the light, studying it with a frown.
