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Not just yet.
I stood and took her with me. Pressed against my chest, I lifted her out of the water, then carried her inside.
I grabbed a towel on the way and the ointment I had pulled out of my backpack earlier when I undressed.
I put her down on the bed and sat down behind her so her back was to me.
She squealed—but it sounded drowsy and tired. “You’re getting the bed all wet.”
I clenched my jaw to prevent a chuckle and stared at her delicious neck.
Here she was, naked, hurt, a captive, and she cared about the bed.
I shook my head—this woman.
“Hold still.”
The satiny white skin of her back was like a canvas before me—if it weren’t for the angry red welts and the blue-tinged spots marring the perfect picture.
I held my breath, my finger hovering above one of those welts.
I wanted to touch her. Needed to touch her.
But not yet.
“How long were you there?” I took the towel and blotted her skin dry.
Inch by precious inch. Carefully avoiding putting too much pressure on her or chafing her skin even more.
“I can do that myself.” Her voice sounded hoarse and sleepy.
She was probably crashing from an adrenaline high that had kept her upright for who knows how long.
I nodded but kept on doing what I needed to do. “Answer my question.”
She sighed, then shrugged a single shoulder. “Four days.”
Four fucking days she’d been in captivity.
Had been abused.
Until now.
I’d forced myself not to focus on the multiple marks on her body. But now I focused on nothing but the fresh whipping marks on her back, especially the one scar on her upper back where the skin had broken. Several not-so-deep but angry red precisely placed lines on her ass—a cane—as well as those on her breasts.
“This will help with healing and disinfect the wounds.” My voice was husky, but it was all I could do to keep the anger out of it. I held up the little container so she could see it, waited for her nod, then dipped my finger inside and started to spread the ointment.
I’d had my fair share of scrapes and injuries, the occasional knife wound and even a stray bullet wound once. I knew they healed better by taking care of them—at a minimum, disinfecting and keeping them clean.
Her wounds hadn’t been tended to.
A storm of fire flushed through my body—hot enough to burn me from the inside. My heart pumped faster—a furious beat—and I ground my teeth to keep those emotions locked inside.
She didn’t need to see my anger, didn’t need the fury—what she needed was to feel safe and heal.
But I would kill my uncle for what he did to her. I didn’t even need to know if he was the one who had my father killed.
Hurting her alone was enough.
