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Riley does need to get cleaned up, but she needs more than that, and I’m the best one to give it to her. The emotions overloading her right now aren’t just familiar to me, I’ve lived, breathed, and battled them. They’ve seeped into my soul and become part of the fabric of my being. I have no experience offering comfort, but comfort isn’t required. Riley simply needs to know she’s not alone in the dark, empty place she’s currently buried in. A place I know all too well.
I’m not sure how to put all of that into words, but these are my brothers, so I don’t have to.
Maddoc exchanges a look with Dante, and an entire non-verbal conversation passes between them. Then Dante claps me on the shoulder, and Maddoc gives a sharp nod. “Okay, do it.”
He scowls, then shakes his head without saying anything further. He doesn’t like seeing her this way. None of us do. But they both trust me with her, and he turns away, following Dante out of the room.
I take Riley up the stairs and into the bathroom. She’s covered in blood, and even though it’s the middle of summer, I know she’s cold. Not on the outside maybe, but death leaves a chill that creeps into the blood and bones and marrow if it’s not rooted out.
I push the plug into place in the tub and turn on the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s warm enough to do that.
Riley stands by the door where I left her, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror behind me. I move in front of her, blocking her view, and strip off her ruined clothes, putting each blood-soaked item into the trash. The bruises I once put around her neck are long since healed, but the scar I left on her chest is still there. It will always be there.
And it’s not the only permanent mark I’ve left on her.
I frown when I notice the stitches at her waist. The bullet that grazed her didn’t go deep, and she hasn’t complained once. I remember touching her body, though. Piercing her soft skin as I lay down the line of stitches. Leaving my mark on her body in a way that will always connect us.
I haven’t forgotten about the stitches. On the contrary, knowing she has something in her flesh that I put there is something I’ve thought of often over the last few weeks. But seeing them now, I realize they need to come out. Indulging my own desire to leave proof of my effect on her is hurting her.
I don’t want to do that. Once, I did. But now…
“These need to come out,” I say, running my finger over the rough line of precisely placed stitches.
Riley doesn’t react.
I leave her for a moment to fetch the correct tools—razor-sharp medical scissors for precision work and a pair of sterile tweezers—and then kneel down next to her hip and do it.
I did leave them in too long. Small beads of blood form as I remove the sutures, her pale flesh pulling toward me as I gently tug each stitch out. The smooth curve of her waist is marred by the irritated line I leave behind, but a part of me is pleased. The scarring here will be subtle, but present.
I want her whole body covered in my marks.
I want to claim all of it.
I go still for a moment, the unfamiliar emotion almost overwhelming me. Then I carefully fold it tightly, then fold it again, tucking it away for later.
I dispose of the medical waste, check the temperature of the water in the now full bathtub, and put Riley into it.
“Sit,” I tell her when she doesn’t.
Riley doesn’t respond, but a single tear tracks down her cheek.
I wipe it away and stare into her eyes. They’re not empty. They’re too full.
I can’t take away the pain or the anger—those have marked her just as surely as the knife and needle I wielded on her body, and will be scars she bears forever—but I can help her drain them. Reassure her that the fears they’re wrapped in, fears for her sister, aren’t going to come to pass.
We won’t let them.
I lower her down into the water, crouching next to her as I start to wash away the blood. “Maddoc has had our people tracking West Point’s activities ever since your sister left. Up until now, we’ve kept that to our own territory and the borderlands, but tonight changes that.”
Riley doesn’t respond, and when the water turns murky and dark, I drain some and add in fresh water, then start on her hair.
“Not one of McKenna’s key players will be able to move without a shadow. If they get near your sister, if they even get wind of contact again, we’ll know it. We’ll get there first.”
The water darkens the deep blues and purples she’s colored her hair with, turning the natural brunette roots almost black. I work my hands through it carefully, massaging the shampoo through the heavy waves and carefully separating the tangles until the whole, lush mass of it is clean again.
Slowly, her body goes from stiff and unresponsive to something softer, but she still doesn’t speak. Water trickles down her tight curves, beads on the smooth, satin expanse of her skin, blends with the tears which intermittently trickle down her cheeks as I go on, outlining all the measures we’ve taken to ensure that we find Chloe.
Once I’ve removed all traces of her father’s death, I help her out and dry off every drop of it, then check the small divots left behind from the row of stitches. They’re closing nicely and shouldn’t need any further care, but I swab them with antiseptic anyway. This time, Riley tracks my movements, but she still makes no effort to take over. She’s like a living doll, and I manipulate her body with precision and care as I finish.
