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I sway but remain steady.
We both frown at the blood covering the entire front of my body.
My clothes look like they’ve soaked up about six different people’s blood. Thinking about it, that is probably a pretty close measurement.
Water spray sounds behind me as Oz twists the handle. He is so big, towering over me like a great protector. “Arms up,” his voice is soft, smooth and caring.
I obey and let him undress me. There is nothing sexual about his touch as he examines me—nothing resembling lust is in his eyes as he takes me in. The blood of our enemies, having soaked through my clothes, stains my skin. Oz guides me into the shower, removing his clothes and joining me.
Rough hands, calloused from centuries of working with them, glide over my skin. His touch sends electric pulses of sensation down my back. He helps the water rinse the dried blood from my skin, cleansing me of what happened. He scrubs my back, arms, shoulders, breasts, and stomach using my favorite soap. He kneels before me and gently washes my legs, his hands stopping just before the height of my thighs. How I want him to keep touching me.
Satisfied, he turns his attention to my hair. The water has rinsed out all the dried rust-colored flakes, so he lathers my hair and massages my scalp. He works his fingers through my hair, preventing any tangles from forming. It feels fucking incredible.
He isn’t nearly as filthy as I had been. The smell of gunpowder is more potent than anything else. Still, I run the soap over his form, allowing my fingers to delight in the sensation of his packed muscles and the veins roping in his arms. Tracing the hard outlines of his chest, his abs. I wash every part of him with as much tenderness as he’s shown me, and despite wanting to turn this into more, I focus solely on our bathing.
I love his hair.
Working shampoo through it is challenging with our height difference, but he helps. Caging me with his arms, and bracing against the shower wall, Oz bends his neck forward, providing the access I need. Once thoroughly rinsed, I wrap my arms loosely around his waist, enjoying the feeling of the scalding hot water pounding into us.
Lips lower to my ear, and he whispers, “Wren, are you okay, love?”
Stupid question.
Of course, I’m not okay.
I have been kidnapped, hurt, threatened, witness to the murder of our coven leader, tortured…
Despite all of that, I am home, and I am safe. I have the love of my life is at my side and my mind is whole for the first time in weeks. I am doing far better than I have any right to be.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, burying my face in his chest.
Turning off the water, Oz grabs me by my hand and helps me from the tub. He wraps me in towels and helps me dry my hair. I submit to him and let him take control. I let him take care of me like he wants.
I love the way he tends to my needs. Each action is filled with love and tenderness that show I am his and always will be. I stare into his eyes, thinking about how everyone who had played a role in this is dead, how our family came together and put an end to those who would harm us. I think about how I relied on the darkest parts of me to keep myself safe, and how it led to me finally accepting myself for who I am.
Can he tell?
Does he know?
Oz carries me back into our bedroom and lays me on the bedspread. Climbing beside me, I feel a stillness as he rests his head on my abdomen, fingers absentmindedly tracing where a gaping wound was just hours before. Feeding from Emerson restored me and made me physically whole again. I feel strong, but I am tired, so tired from everything.
Tangling my fingers in Oz’s chestnut hair, I relax as his hands search me. Like he is looking for injuries that aren’t on the surface anymore. Given the sort of people I was held captive by, I know what he wants to ask. He takes a deep breath, and I notice he doesn’t want to look at my face as he probes for the answer.
“Wren, did they hurt you, my love? Did anyone… violate you.” His muscles are tense. I move my hand to his neck, working the knots at the base.
“They threatened it and worse. I was drained, smacked around, and you saw what Emerson did with his knife. There was one…” I have to tell him about the guard. I’m sure that he can smell that someone placed their hands on me. My breasts, my center. That someone had kissed my lips, my neck… I should shudder at the memory of him pressing into me.
Why doesn’t it bother me?
The face of the cruel woman swims in my mind’s eye, and I know.
She took it.
She took it all.
An emotion I can’t name swells inside of me and I continue my story. “My guard, outside the cell… I lured him in with the promise of my body.”
Oz stiffens but says nothing.
