Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty Five
Erica
The kitchen smells like roast and garlic and rosemary, warm and fragrant in a way that should feel comforting.
The roast is done. I know it’s done because I’ve checked it twice and then checked it again, as if the oven might’ve lied the first two times.
It’s sitting in there in the roasting pan, browned and glossy, little carrots tucked around it, trying to make it look neat, instead of like I was fighting for my life in someone else’s kitchen.
The potatoes are mashed and covered, the bowl warm under the lid. Maybe hard as a rock by now.
And I’m just sitting at the island, staring at the clock.
It’s well past the time Nico told me to be here. Hours past the time.
Outside, the sky has shifted from late afternoon to evening, the windows dark, the garden lights clicking on somewhere out back. The house feels bigger at night. Quieter. More expensive.
More not mine.
I try to tell myself this is normal. He’s busy. He said he might not be back by the time I got here. Someone did let me in. He has a life that doesn’t run on my schedule.
But the longer I sit here, the more awkward it feels—like I’m a guest who overstayed. Like I’m playing house in a place that isn’t mine and pretending I belong because I brought groceries and made dinner.
My phone sits on the counter, screen dark.
No texts.
No calls.
I press my lips together and stare at the oven like it’s going to tell me what to do next.
The stupid part is that I want to be mad.
I want to be annoyed that he told me to come and then disappeared.
But underneath that, there’s something sharper that I don’t want to name. A familiar coil of worry that tightens the longer the house stays quiet.
I push off the stool and stand.
Okay.
I pull the oven mitts on and step toward the stove, already deciding I’ll take the roast out and leave it on the counter with a note. Maybe he’ll want some when he—
The front door opens.
I freeze.
The sound carries through the empty house. Then keys drop onto the console table a little too hard, the clink sharp in the stillness.
Relief hits me first.
Then something else.
Because there’s shuffling. Not the normal sound of someone taking off shoes, hanging a coat. A rough drag. A grunt that doesn’t match anything casual.
My stomach drops.
I pull the mitts off and set them down too fast. My hands are suddenly slick.
I walk out of the kitchen and into the living area, crossing it toward the entryway, my steps quickening.
Another shuffle.
Another grunt.
Then he steps into view.
For half a second, my brain refuses to make sense of it.
He’s not in his suit anymore. He’s wearing black pants and a black shirt.
His jacket is half on, half off, one arm fighting with it like his shoulder doesn’t want to move.
His hair is messed up, not the neat version of him I’m used to seeing.
His shirt is ripped, he’s limping, and his breathing is a little too heavy.
And his face—
One eye is nearly swollen shut.
There’s a cut on his cheek, dried blood along it.
Bruises bloom across his jaw and along his cheekbone, angry and dark, and the sight of them makes my lungs freeze up.
He takes one more step into the room, and I see it in the way he moves—careful and stiff like everything hurts, like it takes effort not to show it.
Like those aren’t the only bruises.
A sound leaves me before I can stop it.
A gasp. Sharp and helpless.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
Then, louder, because my brain finally catches up.
“Oh my God, Nico.”
I rush to him.
He lifts his good hand, palm out, like he can stop me with a gesture.
“Erica,” he says, voice rough. “Jesus, I forgot— Don’t—”
I don’t listen. I’m already there, already reaching for him.
“What happened?” I demand, and it comes out too high. Too fast. “Your eye—”
He winces when he finally gets the jacket off his shoulder and lets it hang from his hand. The ripped fabric shifts, and I catch another flash of bruising along his ribs, dark under the black shirt.
“Don’t touch me,” he says, his voice oddly muffled. “I’m dirty.”
I blink at him, stunned.
“Dirty?” I repeat. “Nico, what— I don’t care. What happened?”
I reach for him again, but again, he stops me with a hand.
“I mean it,” he says. “Blood. Sweat. Rats. I’m fine. Just don’t.”
“You are not fine,” I say, and my voice breaks on the last word because I look at his face again, and it’s like my brain can’t accept it. “Sit. Now.”
His jaw tightens.
He tries to take one more step, and his breath catches, sharp and involuntary, like his body snitched on him.
I grab his wrist anyway.
He flinches, then freezes.
“Shower,” he insists. “Then sit. Promise.”
His voice is still oddly muffled, and it looks like he’s not fully opening his jaw.
“Nico, I think you need to go to the hospital.”
But he’s shaking his head before I even finish.
“No hospital. Fine.”
And whatever is going on with his jaw is getting worse by the second.
For a second, I consider just calling an ambulance against his wishes. But I sigh.
“Fine,” I say tightly. “Can you even go up the stairs?”
He points to a hall off to the side without a word. I take it to mean there’s a bathroom with a shower there somewhere.
“Okay,” I say, trying to make sure my voice doesn’t shake like it desperately wants to. “Come on.”
He shifts his weight like he’s about to stand on pride alone.
His breath catches again.
I step in before he can pretend it didn’t.
“Don’t,” I warn, low. “Don’t be heroic. Just… let me.”
“Dirty,” he insists again. “No touch.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re going to shower then.”
Carefully, mindful of bruises I can’t see, I slide an arm around his waist. I can’t actually take on that much of his weight, but I can help him stay straight.
I know it’s bad when he actually does lean on me just a bit.
We start down the hall.
His steps are measured, but there’s a hitch to them. A slight drag, as if one leg is protesting.
My stomach turns with every little sound he makes—every restrained exhale, every swallow he forces with the hurt and the pain.
“You’re not fine,” I mutter. “And you should be in a hospital.”
He doesn’t answer.
We reach a bedroom at the end of the hall, and inside it is another door leading to a bathroom.
It’s as nice as the rest of the house—stone tile, glass shower. A thick stack of towels carefully folded.
I lead him into the shower, clothes and all, and help him sit on the bench.
The moment he sits, his shoulders sag a fraction like his body’s been waiting for the weight to be taken off.
I turn the water on. Warm, not hot. The last thing he needs is heat swelling whatever’s already swollen.
I pull my hair up with the tie on my wrist, and then get started on Nico.
His shirt is already torn at the side seam, so I just pull gently, and it rips the rest of the way with a soft tearing sound.
Nico sucks in a breath through his teeth as the very movement lights him up.
“Easy,” he grits.
“I’m being easy,” I snap, and my hands shake anyway as I peel the ruined shirt off him inch by inch.
The bruising under it is worse than I expected.
Dark and wide across his ribs. A mottled bloom along his side. A scrape near his hip that’s still rimmed red.
My stomach drops.
“Nico, what the hell happened?” I whisper.
He looks at me with the eye that can actually still open, but he doesn’t answer. He probably can’t with his jaw anyway.
I swallow hard and keep my eyes on my hands, because if I look too long, I’m going to lose it.
His belt is next.
My fingers fumble on the buckle because they’re not steady, and because it feels wrong to be undressing him like this when he’s hurt.
It shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be like this. My eyes burn, but I hold it back.
I work the button of his pants and the zipper next. He braces his hand on the bench and raises his hips a fraction. I slide his pants down carefully.
He shifts and immediately winces, breath catching.
“Stop moving,” I order.
He huffs a humorless breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s not funny,” I snap.
He reaches up to cup my cheek gently, and I hold his hand there for a second, closing my eyes. Comforting me even when he’s the one injured.
Gently, I put his hand back down and continue undressing him until there’s a pile of his clothes and shoes outside the shower.
I grab the handheld shower head and test the water temperature, then I bring it down and start at his shoulders.
The first rinse sends a thin ribbon of brownish water down his chest. Dust. Sweat. Whatever else he dragged home with him.
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, as if it takes effort not to tense.
“Tell me if it hurts,” I say, and my voice is a lot steadier than I feel.
His eye flicks to mine, and he nods once.
I bite the inside of my cheek and move lower, careful over the bruising along his ribs. The water hits the dark, mottled skin, and my stomach turns again.
I do not cry.
I rinse his side, the scrape near his hip, the back of his arm where there’s another smear of blood I didn’t notice until the water made it shine.
I tip his chin up with two fingers and rinse along his neck, careful around the cut on his cheek. His throat works when he swallows, and it looks like it hurts.
I angle the spray away from his face and carefully wet his hair. Warm water runs through his hair and darkens it, flattening the mess into something that looks more like him again.
He closes his eyes for a second, jaw tight, like the sensation is too much and not enough at the same time.
I pump shampoo into my palm and rub my hands together, then work it into his scalp with slow, careful fingers.
He exhales, and his body relaxes a bit.
“Okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
His one good eye opens and meets mine.
He gives me the smallest nod.
I rinse the suds out, watching them slide down his forehead and temples, careful not to send water into his eyes or cheek.
I repeat the process two more times, until I’m absolutely sure I got all of it. I’m not sure if Nico uses conditioner, but his hair is long enough and soft enough that I suspect he does, so I do that as well.
I reach for the soap on the shelf and lather it between my hands, not daring to use the loofah hanging on the hook.
Then I wash him in sections, like I’m trying not to touch too much skin at once because it might make a difference somehow.
His left shoulder. His right shoulder.
His chest.
The line of his stomach.
He flinches once when my hand passes over a tender spot, and I stop immediately.
“Here?” I ask.
He nods once.
I switch to the lightest touch I can manage, rinsing instead of scrubbing, letting the water do most of the work.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Just breathe.”
He huffs, short.
“Don’t get short with me,” I say. “You are in a lot of trouble.”
But my hands stay gentle as I finish up the process, then rinse all the soap off him.
Before I can reach for the handle to turn the water off, I feel his hand on mine.
His eyes look down at my body.
Me now.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll take care of you, and then wash up. I’m not as bad as you were.”
But he just shakes his head and does the same motion with his eyes.
Now.
I blow out a breath through my nose.
“Fine,” I mutter, more annoyed than anything.
I look down and see all the grime on myself. Smears on my forearms, damp marks on my clothes where I leaned into him. Blood and dust on my white shirt. Whatever he dragged home, and I picked up.
I pull my shirt over my head.
“You just want to watch me shower,” I say.
“Mhmm,” he says, head leaned back against the wall.
Pants unbuttoned, shoved down, kicked away. His good eye narrows.
I look down. “What?” I ask.
He lifts a brow and looks down at my pants, then right at my pussy.
“I don’t think you’re in any condition for that,” I say.
He does the same motion again, and I follow his eyes. When I figure out what he’s indicating, my cheeks heat.
No panties.
“Yeah, well. You missed out. Big time,” I say and step back into the spray.
He makes a slight groaning sound, and I suppress a smile.
The water’s warm, and it hits my skin with relief.
My hair was pulled back and didn’t really get hit with anything, but the thought of all the grime Nico brought in, I feel gross not including it.
I do it quickly, then grab the soap and scrub everywhere until the slick, dirty feeling is gone and the water running off my body is clear.
When I’m done, I reach for a towel and dry off quickly, because I’m not done dealing with him yet. I find a robe hanging on the back of the door and shrug into it. It’s huge and hangs off me, but it’ll do for now. I grab a couple more towels and walk back into the shower.
He’s sitting the same way I left him, head back, eyes half-lidded, water dripping off his lashes and down his chest in slow trails.
As gently as possible, I rub one towel over his hair, and then blot it over his skin instead of rubbing.
When I’ve dried as much of him as I can sitting, I use the towel to get a grip on him since his skin is still fairly slick.
“We’re going to stand up now, okay?” I say softly. “Ready?”
He plants his feet and rises slowly, using the wall and the bench, while I help as much as I can.
When he’s standing straight, I quickly dry all the spots I couldn’t reach before, then wrap the dry towel around his waist.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, and help him out of the shower.