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My heart shatters into more pieces than the mirror on the floor as I watch her crumple in on herself. Clara Everett,myClara, has a fiery soul tempered by a lifetime of enduring the worst mankind has to offer.
To see her like this after only a few weeks with my own father?
It’s a punishment worse than death.
I fall to my knees behind her because I don’t know what else to do. I pull her into my arms and brace myself for the well-deserved onslaught because, again, I’m all out of moves here.
I stretch out my legs and slide us back against the far wall. At least this way, I can hold her close and gently rock her back and forth. Slowly, subtly, but I do it.
She’s not fighting me anymore. She’s stopped screaming.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I could possibly tell her to make things right, so in the end, I don’t say anything at all.
Slowly, her sobs quiet and still. But I don’t let go. I hold her closer, tighter, and let her bury her face into my neck so she can scream if she needs to.
I’m glad for the shower, for the water still streaking her skin.
It lets me hide my own tears.
5
DEMYEN
Once Clara has calmed down, I make an executive decision for both our sanities and carry her over to her bed.
But instead of tucking her into it, dripping wet and naked, I wrap her up in the comforter and hoist her back into my arms.
I should have posted a guard inside her room, or at least asked Bambi to stay with her. Clara is in no state of mind to be left all alone. Not when there’s dozens of sharp glass pieces scattered around her bathroom floor.
As we pass by it, a quick glance over toward the solarium confirms that Willow is still fast asleep. I hope the kid didn’t hear anything that just happened.
Clara doesn’t make a sound the whole way to my room. She doesn’t so much as whimper when I sit her down on my bed and leave her inside the bundle while I head to my bathroom for fresh, dry towels. And when I return, I can see she hasn’t moved an inch.
I don’t know if I should be worried or relieved.
The first thing I tackle is her hair. Right now, it’s a tangled, sopping mess hanging limply around her face and body. I grab one of my wide-toothed combs and a hand towel, then move toward the bed. I realize I’m about to soak it through with my jeans, so I kick those off and kneel behind her, making sure to keep a respectable distance between us.
I squeeze her hair as dry as I can with the hand towel, then get to work combing out the tangles. Something in my chest tightens painfully. All this time with her, and all this time away from her, and at no point have I ever just taken the time to enjoy the simple things about her.
Like the way her curls spring to life around my fingers, regardless of how thoroughly I’ve combed them.
Or the way she sighs and slumps as the comb massages her scalp, slow and smooth.
It takes a long while to work every tangle from her hair, but I’m glad for it. The silence, the focus, gives both of us time to sort through our thoughts.
At least, it does for me. By the time I’m done, I’m more determined than ever to work the tangles out between us, however long that may take.
Even if it takes forever.
Clara stands and lets the now-wet comforter drop to the floor. Immediately, I force myself to concentrate on drying her off with a soft bath towel so I’m not distracted by her naked curves.
Or by the sight of my family’s crest seared into the back of her thigh.
As I work, I don’t let my fingers touch her skin. I don’t think she’s ready for that, and I’m not sure she ever will be.
I can’t blame her. For right now, she just needs to know that I’m here for her, I’m herewithher, and she’s safe. I’m going to take care of her, starting now.
She tries to pull away suddenly, but I don’t let her. I wrap my arms around her, using the towel as a blanket to hold her against my chest.
