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The look she sent him held such gratitude he could’ve wept. Instead, he shed his sleep pants and stepped behind her into water that was scalding hot.
“Sheesh, sweetheart.” Sam hissed, half afraid his balls were boiling. “If you wanted to make stew, you shoulda added some onion and bay leaves.”
Kimberly gave a weak chuckle. “You know I can’t cook, Samuel.”
Sam eased back against the porcelain and brought Kimberly with him. “God, I love the way you say my name,” he told her, and looked down in time to see her smile.
“I’m glad. I like saying it. Samuel,” she murmured seductively and peeked up at him through her lashes. It made his blood boil even more than the thousand-degree water.
“Stop trying to seduce me, sweetheart,” he told her gently, because it was working. He brought his palm to her forehead and brought her head back to his chest. She reluctantly molded into his body, and he brushed her hair from her face so he could read her expression. “Can you tell me what kept you up tonight?”
Her teasing and playful smile vanished and the wounded and frightened woman he’d found cowering in the tub reappeared.
“Another nightmare,” she whispered like she was confessing a crime. “Boring but true. Even I’m getting tired of myself.”
It broke something in Sam’s heart to hear her say that. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” she hedged, “with what Shawna went through, you can understand her nightmares. And I know, I know, I was hurt too and what happened to me was also a big deal. But come on. Compared to what they had to deal with? I feel like such a baby.” Tears filled her eyes and she angrily swiped at them. Sam felt her tremble. “But the thing is, the nightmares are so real. You know? So scary. It happens over and over again. I’m standing on the patio. Looking out over the ocean…” Her breathing hitched. The boyfriend in Sam wanted to gather Kimberly up and quiet her with tender kisses and warm hugs; the psychologist in him remained quiet and let her get the words out.
“Then I hear it. His horrible voice in my ear and before I can turn or react or scream or anything, he hits me so hard. So fucking hard. Then I’m in the trunk and I hurt all over and it’s so scary.” A sob caught in her chest and his arms tightened around her until she could continue.
“You know, I was more terrified during that part and when he was beating me to shit on the porch than during the fire. I had the collar, and he was gone as soon as he saw the flames. But in that trunk, Samuel”—Kimberly swallowed and let out another heartbreaking sob—“when I was in that damn trunk, I was so fucking scared I was gonna die. And that’s what I dream about. Every night, I’m in that trunk again. And every night I can’t get out. Until he opens it and hits me. And hits me and keeps hitting me until I wake up and I swear, I still feel every punch and kick I took.”
Then the dam finally broke. Kimberly covered her face with both hands, burst into sobs, and turned into Sam’s embrace. At long last seeking the solace both he and Dean had been offering since her ordeal.
Their sweet, fierce, independent sub who thought she had the world by the tail. Kimberly had been a walking time bomb since they’d taken down the first of the ring. Unfortunately, she was too stubborn and strong willed to see that she’d been deeply affected by what had happened, too. In her mind, because she hadn’t been tortured to the extent that the others had, she hadn’t the right to an extended recovery.
Which was the height of ridiculousness, if you asked him. His Kimberly was a delightful and all-too-human woman, complete with her own insecurities and baggage.
Being able to trust the men who loved her, including all of what she considered her uglier side, was a good place to start.
Michiko was hunchedover the kitchen counter when Kimberly came out later that morning. Sam had gone back to bed for a few more hours’ sleep. Dean and Shawna were still fast asleep, so it was just the two of them.
“You’re here awful early, aren’t you?” Kimberly asked, figuring they were beyond manners at this point.
“Can we not talk before coffee, Kimbo?” Apparently, Michiko felt the same.
“Fine by me,” she said and poured herself a mug. “And you’re the Kimbo. I’m the Kimberly.”
“See,” Michiko said and waved a finger at her. “That right there is talking.”
Kimberly laughed and was going to reply with something snarky when she saw Michiko flinch as she raised her cup for another drink.
“He really did a number on you last night,” Kimberly said, taking a good long look at the tiny agent for the first time. Michiko was wearing her old beat-up FBI T-shirt again and her arms were covered in angry purple bruises. There was a black one on the side of her jaw where the bastard had gotten carried away and missed her shoulder. Kimberly’s eyes tracked to the top of Michiko’s head, and she wondered if there was a goose egg up there. The woman looked as though she’d been run over by a truck last night.
“I had to get out of the house before Miwa saw me like this,” Michiko confessed and rubbed gingerly at her thighs. “She’d flip her shit, for sure. You guys are going to have to put me up until this mess calms down or she’s gonna storm Cas’ office and blow our case.”
She tried to make light of the situation, but she was in such obvious pain that her attempt fell flat.
“Come on.” Kimberly stood and wrapped an arm gently around Michiko’s back. “Let’s get you seen to.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” Michiko tried to brush her off but stood at the same time.
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Kimberly contradicted, “but I’m only taking you to the bathroom.”
For now, Kimberly thought, she’d see how bad the rest of the damage was before she made a final decision on a trip to the hospital.
“Oh, okay then.” Reassured, Michiko came as meekly as a lamb then—well, make thatmoved like an old woman.
