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She grins. She doesn’t back away. Never does, this one. Most women would. So would most men. But not Mercedes De La Rosa.
“If by touch you mean did he resuscitate me when I almost drowned, then yes. So we’re talking mouth-to-mouth.”
She licks her lips.
I growl. My hands become fists on the bed.
Her grin widens. “And then there’s our shower. I mean, I was so weak I couldn’t even clean myself. So he, well, you remember how it was when you cleaned me, right? I mean, it’s a very intimate moment between a man and—”
My hand is around her throat just like last night. And just like then, her hands close over my forearm trying to pry me off. It’s clear that what she sees terrifies her. It’s only happened a few times before, but it has happened. And I know what she’s looking at. The beast.
I loosen my grip as much as I am able. “Did he fucking touch you?”
“I can’t breathe,” she croaks out.
I let her go and turn away, go to the window where in the far distance I can see the smoke coming out of the chimney of my mother’s cottage.
“He found me naked, bound, and facedown drowning in a fucking creek. He saved my life. You owe him a debt of gratitude because if I’d died…”
I spin on her and find her standing. “Don’t fucking say that.”
“Which part?”
Her throat is raw. I hear it, and I see all her bruises again, all the scratches, and the animal inside me finally yields to the protector. The beast you feed is the one that grows. Theron chose his beast five years ago. Have I chosen mine?
I sigh.
“Come, Mercedes. You’re hurt.”
I’m not sure if it’s my words or my tone that stop her, but for once, she doesn’t argue. I walk around the bed to the bathroom and run the water in the tub. Rolling up my sleeve, I check the temperature to make sure it’s not too hot for her cuts but not too cool so it’s not uncomfortable. Once I’m satisfied, I plug it and stand, drying my hands on a towel.
She comes into view at the door, still suspicious.
“I will wash his touch off you before I take care of your cuts and bruises.”
“You hate him.”
I don’t answer that. It’s obvious enough. “What were you thinking to run? I wouldn’t harm you. Don’t you know that? I will punish you, but I will never take it too far.”
“Last night was too far.”
“Last night wounded your pride.”
“You lost your temper, Judge.”
I am mute for a long moment. I hang my head because she’s right. It happened last night. And again just a few moments ago. What would she do if she ever saw that punishment room? She’d run for the hills.
No, she’d run right into my brother’s waiting arms.
“I don’t like when that happens,” she admits in a voice I don’t hear often. “It scares me.”
I look at her, close the space between us to brush her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “I won’t lose control with you. I promise. Your scars... I’d never do that to you. Hurt you like that.”
“But you already have.”
Again, I’m struck mute. With a sigh, she brushes my arm off, then crosses to the tub and climbs in.
I will unpack that later. I can’t right now. My head is still swimming, and she needs me. I strip off my shirt and toss it aside. What I mean to do is sit on the edge of the tub and clean her. It’s my intention.
