Chapter 16 #2
I grabbed the towel she had wrapped around her. Started at her arms—long, slow strokes that followed the curve of muscle and bone. Over her shoulders. Down her back. The towel absorbed water in silence, leaving her skin pale and clean.
I moved lower. Along her thighs. Behind her knees. Down to her calves. And then—without thinking, without hesitating—I dropped to one knee.
The tile was cold against my kneecap.
I moved the towel around her left ankle, dried carefully up to her knee. Switched legs. Same deliberate attention. Same agonizing patience.
My world narrowed to the motion. The texture of the towel. The way her breathing hitched when I touched the inside of her ankle.
I'd never knelt to anyone. Not my father. Not my coaches. Not the women who'd tried to tame me.
Kneeling was submission. Weakness. Loss of control. But here I was—on one knee on cold tile, drying Belle Reiss's legs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I didn't notice. Didn't register the symbolism. Didn't realize what I'd just given away.
But Belle did.
I felt it in the way her body went rigid above me. The way her breath caught—sharp and sudden. The way her fingers curled against my shoulder, nails pressing through fabric.
When I looked up, she was staring down at me. Eyes wide. Shocked. Confused. Like she was seeing something she didn't understand. Something that terrified her more than anything I'd done before.
I stood quickly. Wrapped the towel around her shoulders.
"Bed," I said again.
My voice came out rougher than intended.
She walked.
I followed.
And neither of us spoke about what had just happened.
I eased her onto the bed. She sat there, towel wrapped around her shoulders, watching me with eyes I couldn't read. Wary. Exhausted. Something else.
I pulled open the drawer. Found the pajamas exactly where I'd left them. Soft flannel. Navy blue with tiny white stars. The kind of thing someone wore when they were sick. When they needed comfort more than beauty.
I'd bought them five days ago. Before she arrived. Before any of this started.
Not lingerie.
Not silk.
Not anything meant to seduce.
Just warmth.
I held up the shirt. Belle didn't move. Didn't raise her arms. Didn't help.
So I did it myself.
I gathered the fabric in my hands, slipped it over her head carefully. Her damp hair caught on the collar. I freed it gently, threading the shirt down until her face emerged—pale and blank and so goddamn tired I felt something twist in my chest.
"Arms," I murmured.
She lifted them mechanically.
I guided one through the sleeve, then the other, my fingers brushing her skin as I adjusted the fabric. The shirt hung loose on her frame. Too big. Comfortable.
I never looked down. Not at her body. Not at the curves the towel revealed as it slipped.
Just her face. Watching for the moment she'd break again. The moment she'd push me away.
She didn't.
I reached for the pants next. Held them open near her feet. "Lift."
She obeyed.
I slid them up slowly—over her calves, past her knees. When I reached her hips, I paused. Waited for her to flinch. To protest.
She just sat there.
I pulled the waistband over her hips gently, careful not to touch more than necessary. The elastic settled at her waist, and I adjusted the hem so it sat right.
When I was done, I stepped back.
She looked small in those pajamas. Soft. Human. Just Belle. Tired and trembling and trying so hard not to cry that I could see it in every line of her body.
"Lie down," I said quietly.
She did.
I pulled the blankets over her, tucking them around her shoulders the way my mother used to before everything went to hell.
Then I stood there, watching her eyes flutter closed. Watching her breathing even out. Watching her fall asleep in my bed wearing pajamas I'd bought for a version of this I hadn't understood until now.
I didn't leave.
Couldn't.
Just stood there in the dark, wondering when the hell taking care of her had become more important than breaking her.
"Why… why are you being nice to me?" The question floated in the darkness between us.
Soft.
Hoarse.
Devastating.
I went still. Everything in me seized up—chest, lungs, the words I'd been about to say. Gone. My hand hovered inches from her face, caught mid-motion, frozen by something I couldn't name.
The question landed wrong. Hit deeper than it should have. Because I didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. Not one I could say out loud without revealing too much.
I should be cold. Distant. The man who'd forced her here. The man who'd stripped her choices away one by one until she had nothing left but the contract and me.
That version of Gideon didn't feed her grilled cheese. Didn't kneel on bathroom tile to dry her legs. Didn't stand in the dark watching her sleep like I was guarding something precious.
But here I was.
And I didn't know why.
Belle's eyes searched mine—exhausted, confused, terrified of the answer. Terrified she already knew it.
I looked at her. At the vulnerability she couldn't hide. At the fear and softness and something else bleeding through the cracks.
"I don't know." The words came out rougher than I intended. Raw. Honest in a way that made my jaw clench.
A beat passed.
Then another.
I couldn't leave it there. Couldn't let that weakness hang in the air unanswered.
So I gave her the only other truth I had. "I just know I want to take care of you."
Her breath stopped.
Mine followed.
Because I hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to admit it—to her, to myself, to the night pressing in around us.
Taking care of her wasn't part of the deal. Wasn't part of the revenge. Wasn't supposed to feel like need.
But it did.
And now she knew.
I reached for her face—slowly, carefully. Brushed a damp strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture too gentle. Too intimate. Too much like something a man did when he cared.
My fingers lingered against her temple. Just for a second.
Then I pulled back. Stood. Too fast. Too abrupt.
Because if I stayed—if I sat there one more second with her looking at me like that—I'd touch her.
And if I touched her, I wouldn't stop. Not this time. Not when she was soft and vulnerable and looking at me, like maybe I wasn't the monster she wanted me to be.
I walked to the door. Each step deliberate. Controlled. The handle turned under my palm. Cool metal. Grounding.
I paused in the doorway. Looked back. She watched me—eyes wide, unblinking, filled with something I couldn't decipher.
The door closed between us. Gentle. Not a slam. Not punishment.
A boundary.
For the first time since she'd signed that contract, I was the one walking away.
And it felt like surrender.