Chapter 16
Gideon
I stood there.
Just… stood there.
Watching her.
Belle leaned back against the chair, flushed and trembling, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Her eyes were half-lidded, glazed with exhaustion and something else—something raw and vulnerable that made my chest tighten in a way I didn't like.
She was gorgeous.
Wrecked.
Mine.
The possessiveness that surged through me was familiar. Expected. I'd wanted this—wanted to break through her defenses, wanted to prove she couldn't resist me, wanted to hear her beg.
I'd gotten all of it.
So why did I feel like I'd lost something?
Her thighs were still trembling. Her hands gripped the armrests like they were the only things keeping her upright. A tear clung to her lashes, catching the light, and I watched it track slowly down her cheek.
I'd kissed away the others. Tasted salt and shame and surrender. And now I just… stood there.
Hungry.
Uneasy.
Unsure what the hell to do next.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. I'd planned every step—the control, the dominance, the way I'd make her come apart. I'd won. She'd broken exactly the way I wanted her to.
So why did her trembling get under my skin?
Why did leaving her like this—flushed and vulnerable and afraid—feel wrong?
I didn't do guilt. Didn't do regret. I took what I wanted and made no apologies for it. That was the deal. That was who I was.
But looking at Belle now, I felt something shift. Something I couldn't name. Something that made my hands itch to touch her again—not to take, but to… what? Comfort? Reassure?
Fuck.
She needed something.
I could see it in the way her fingers trembled against the armrests. In the way her breath hitched when I moved. In the tear she tried to blink away before I noticed.
She needed something, and every instinct I had—the ones I'd spent years honing, the ones that made me dangerous on the ice and ruthless everywhere else—screamed at me to be the one who gave it to her.
Not because she asked.
Because I wanted to. Because the thought of anyone else touching her, comforting her, seeing her like this made rage crawl up my spine.
I stepped forward.
Slowly.
Her eyes tracked me, wary but too exhausted to run.
"Belle," I said quietly.
She didn't answer. Just watched me with those half-lidded eyes, waiting for whatever came next.
I turned and walked to the kitchen. She needed something, and standing there watching her tremble wasn't it.
The kitchen was spotless. Everything in its place. Exactly how I liked it.
I pulled open the fridge, scanned the contents without really seeing them. My hands moved on autopilot—bread, butter, cheese. Simple. Warm. The kind of thing that settled in your stomach and grounded you when the world tilted sideways.
I didn't know if she liked grilled cheese. Didn't know her favorite foods or what she ate when she was upset or what her mother used to make her when she was sick.
I just knew she needed to eat.
The butter sizzled in the pan. I pressed the sandwich down with the spatula, watching the bread turn golden. The smell filled the kitchen—rich and familiar and uncomplicated.
When it was done, I plated it carefully. Cut it into triangles the way my mother used to before everything went to hell. Added a glass of water because she was probably dehydrated and wouldn't think to ask for it.
Then I carried it back to her.
She hadn't moved. Still slumped in the chair, arms wrapped around herself now, staring at nothing. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her breathing had evened out, but the trembling hadn't stopped.
She looked fragile.
Breakable.
I hated it.
"Belle," I murmured.
She didn't look at me.
I set the plate on the small side table and crouched in front of her, bringing myself to her eye level. She turned her head away, jaw tight.
"You're going to eat."
Her throat worked. She shook her head—small, defiant.
I didn't force her. Didn't grab her chin or snap at her or use the voice that made grown men on the ice flinch.
I just picked up a triangle of sandwich and held it near her mouth.
"Open your mouth."
Low. Quiet. The tone I almost never used because it revealed too much.
Coercive, yes.
But soft.
An invitation she could refuse if she really wanted to.
Except I knew she wouldn't.
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the sandwich, then to my face, then away again.
Her lips parted. Just barely.
I pressed the corner of the sandwich to her mouth, gentle, patient. She took a small bite, chewing mechanically, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
"Good girl," I murmured.
She flinched.
I brought the sandwich back, waited until she opened again. Another bite. Slower this time.
A crumb clung to her lower lip. I brushed it away with my thumb, lingering just long enough to feel her breath hitch.
She turned her head.
"Belle."
She looked at me then—finally—and the rage in her eyes made something in my chest tighten.
She hated this. Hated me. Hated the intimacy of it, the way I was taking care of her like she belonged to me.
Which she did.
But this wasn't about ownership. This was about making sure she didn't shatter completely.
I held the sandwich to her lips again. "Open."
She obeyed, teeth catching the bread roughly, crumbs tumbling onto her lap.
I tutted under my breath, brushing them away. Her hands twitched like she wanted to slap mine away, but she didn't.
"Easy," I said quietly. "I've got you."
The words landed wrong. Too tender. Too much.
But I didn't take them back.
When the last bite disappeared, I stood. "Bath."
The word hung in the air between us.
Belle's eyes snapped to mine, wide and wary. Her whole body tensed like I'd just threatened her.
She thought this was a punishment. Or something worse.
I could see it in the way her fingers dug into the armrests, the way her breath quickened, the way every muscle coiled tight with dread.
I didn't explain. Just walked to the bathroom and turned on the taps.
The water rushed out, filling the silence. I tested the temperature with my hand—warm, almost too warm. The kind of heat that loosened muscles and melted tension. Steam began to curl upward, fogging the mirror, turning the room into something soft and private. A cocoon.
When I returned, Belle hadn't moved. Still braced for whatever came next.
I lifted her. Easy. Effortless. My hands under her knees and back, cradling her weight like it was nothing.
Her breath caught—sharp and small—and I felt the way her body went rigid against mine.
From the heat, maybe.
From exhaustion.
From me.
I lowered her into the tub carefully. The water rose around her, steam wrapping us both. She hissed softly as the warmth hit her skin, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before snapping open again. Watching me. Waiting.
I reached for the washcloth. Dipped it in the water. Wrung it out.
Then I touched her arm. Not rough. Not sexual. Gentle.
The cloth glided over her skin—slow, deliberate strokes that followed the line of her forearm to her wrist. I watched the water cascade down, washing away tension I hadn't realized she was carrying.
Her other arm. Same careful attention. Her shoulders. Her collarbones. Down to her stomach, where her muscles twitched under my touch.
She didn't speak. Didn't pull away. Just sat there, eyes half-closed, breathing shallow.
I moved lower. Her legs. One at a time.
The washcloth traced the curve of her calf, behind her knee, along her thigh. Still gentle. Still reverent. Then… I reached between her legs.
Belle's entire body went rigid. Her eyes flew open, locking on mine with something between terror and confusion.
But I didn't grope.
Didn't take.
Just washed.
Careful.
Slow.
The cloth moved over her pelvis with the same deliberate gentleness I'd used everywhere else. Clinical, almost. Except for the way my jaw tightened. The way my breathing went deeper.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
A tremor ran through her—not fear, not arousal.
Humiliation.
I could feel it radiating off her in waves.
But beneath it… something else.
Something that made her throat work and her breathing hitch and her fingers curl against the porcelain. Comfort. Strange. Unsettling. Unwanted.
I'd never touched anything like it was breakable. Not my stick. Not my opponents. Not the women who'd shared my bed before Belle. Everything in my life was meant to be dominated, controlled, bent to my will.
But this… This felt different.
My hands moved with a precision I usually reserved for the ice. Every stroke of the cloth deliberate. Measured. Like she was something precious I couldn't afford to damage.
When I was done, I set the washcloth aside. Reached for a towel. Held it open. "Up."
Belle opened her eyes. Stared at me like she didn't recognize what she was seeing.
Then she stood.
Water sluiced down her body as I wrapped the towel around her, tucking it carefully at her chest.
She swayed.
I caught her. Steadied her. And for just a moment—one brief, dangerous moment—I let myself hold her. Like she mattered. Like she was more than the contract. More than revenge. More than mine.
Fuck.
I released her. Stepped back.
"Bed," I said quietly.
The water cooled too fast.
I felt it under my fingertips when I reached in—still warm, but losing its edge. Belle sat motionless, eyes closed. Her breathing had evened out. Almost peaceful.
Almost.
I pulled the plug. The drain gurgled as water spiraled away, leaving her skin glistening in the dim light.
"Come on."
I lifted her up from where she was positioned, towel still wrapped around her. Easy. Automatic. My hands slid under her arms, steadying her weight as I set her feet on the bath mat.
Her knees buckled again. I caught her before she hit the floor—one arm around her waist, pulling her upright, holding her steady against my chest.
"Easy," I murmured.
She didn't respond. Just sagged against me, forehead pressed to my shoulder, trembling from exhaustion or cold or something else entirely.