Chapter 23 #2
The juice is cool and perfect, soothing the raw scrape of my throat.
I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until the first sip hits my tongue.
I try to hold the mug myself after a few swallows, but my grip won’t cooperate.
Declan just takes the weight of it without comment, tipping it gently so I can drink without spilling.
My throat tightens. It does something to my chest, seeing him like this.
He isn’t rushing me. He isn’t annoyed. He just watches me with those steady green eyes, patient and unhurried, like taking care of me is the only thing on his schedule today.
“Good girl,” he murmurs when I finish the cup, the low rumble of approval sinking straight into my bones.
Before I can answer, the rich, savory scent of broth drifts in, making my empty stomach clench with sudden hunger.
Eli rounds the corner with a steaming bowl; he takes in Declan hovering, and Knox sprawled between my knees without a blink.
Then he settles on the edge of the coffee table, planting his feet on either side of Knox’s hips so he can lean in close, effectively fencing me in with warmth.
He scoops up a spoonful of broth, blowing on it gently before holding it out.
“Chicken soup,” he says, eyes tracking my face. “Start slow.”
I stare at him, at the spoon he’s holding up.
My instinct is to reach for it, to do it myself, but when I try to lift my hand, my arm feels like lead. A fine tremor runs through my fingers. I’m just…so tired. Too tired to pretend I’m not wrecked.
I let my hand drop back to my lap and open my mouth.
Eli’s gaze warms, something satisfied flashing in his eyes as he feeds me.
The soup is perfect. Warm and savory and exactly what my body needs. The broth coats my throat, and the chicken practically melts on my tongue. Eli watches me chew, his blue eyes tracking every movement, and when I swallow, he offers me another spoonful.
I nod, accepting the food as Knox’s warm hands settle on my calves. He starts kneading the deep, lingering ache out of my legs, working his way down from my knees to my ankles. It feels so good I almost whimper.
Rhys appears from the kitchen, a plate of warm rolls in hand that he sets near Eli on the coffee table before he settles onto the couch behind me, spreading his legs to bracket my hips.
Then he pulls me backward until my spine rests fully against his chest. He becomes my chair, taking my weight so I don’t have to hold myself upright.
His arm bands around my waist, keeping me secure, while his other hand comes up to stroke my hair, untangling the knots with a rhythmic, hypnotic motion that makes my eyelids heavy.
Declan perches on the arm of the couch, watching me eat like it’s the most critical task of his life. When a tiny drop of broth escapes the corner of my mouth, he’s there instantly, catching it with his thumb before brushing his knuckles softly against my cheek.
“Doing great, love,” he murmurs, his eyes warm. “Just keep eating.”
I swallow, but the warmth of the broth seems to expand in my chest until there’s no room for anything else.
It’s just...so much. The way Rhys is solid behind me, the way Knox is massaging the ache out of my legs, the way Eli is focused entirely on nourishing me.
I moved here chasing a daydream of picket fences and polite smiles, thinking that was what happy looked like.
I was wrong.
Halfway through the bowl, I realize my face is wet. Silent tears stream down my face, dripping off my chin and splashing onto the towel wrapped around me.
Eli freezes, the spoon halfway to my mouth. “Sweetheart?” His voice drops, cautious and worried. “What’s wrong? Nausea?”
“No.” I swipe at my face with the back of my hand, but the tears keep coming anyway. “I’m fine. It’s just—” My voice cracks. “This is nice.”
His expression softens. He sets the bowl down carefully, then reaches out and cups my face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away my tears.
“Good,” he says simply. “Get used to it.”
I let out a watery laugh, and he picks up the bowl again, feeding me another bite.
By the time I finish the bowl, exhaustion is pulling at me like a riptide. My eyelids are heavy, and I’m sinking deeper into Rhys’s embrace with every breath. But something nags at the edges of my mind. Something trying to surface through the fog.
“I need to go back over,” I murmur, the words vibrating against Rhys’s chest.
The air in the room instantly tightens.
Rhys’s hand stops stroking my hair. Knox, who had been kneading the tension out of my calf, freezes, his fingers digging in slightly.
“Why?” Eli asks. It’s a calm question, but there’s a current of steel running underneath it.
“Stuff,” I mumble, gesturing vaguely with a heavy hand. “I’m in a towel. I need clothes. My toothbrush. My face wash. I can’t just live in a towel forever.”
I try to shift, to sit up, but Rhys’s arm is a band of iron around my waist. He doesn’t let me move an inch.
“Relax,” Knox says, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. He looks…smug.
I watch as he leans back, reaches behind the end of the sofa and hauls up a cognac leather weekender that looks suspiciously like mine. He drops it onto the cushion beside me with a soft thud.
I blink at it. “Is that—”
“Yours,” he says. “We went over while you were sleeping. Dek did most of the looting.”
Declan lifts a hand from the arm of the couch in a little half-bow, also smug. “Only the essentials.”
My fingers find the strap, curling around the stiff, pristine leather.
I bought this bag three years ago. It was an expensive, hopeful purchase for the version of me that had a pack to whisk her away.
It’s sat tucked away ever since, empty and waiting.
Now it’s here, heavy with my things, sitting on the couch of four men who actually did the whisking.
Eli leans in, close enough that his knee brushes mine, and hooks his fingers in the zipper. “We guessed,” he says quietly, like we’re sharing a secret.
The zipper slides open with a soft rasp.
On top are my black leggings. The soft, over-washed pair with the wide waistband, folded the way I fold them.
My vintage concert tee is next, the one I always reach for when I’m too tired to think.
The corner of my Kindle peeks out from under it, case stickered and slightly chipped from being dropped too many times.
Declan’s hand disappears into the side pocket and comes back with my little lineup from the bathroom. “This one,” he says, setting the cucumber face wash on the table, then the blue-lidded moisturizer. “And your pink toothbrush. Couldn’t miss it.”
My eyes sting.
“You don’t have to ask,” Declan says, quieter now. His knuckles brush my jaw, thumb catching a tear before it can track all the way down.
I look at the clean, soft clothes. I want them. I want to feel normal cotton against my skin instead of a towel. But as I shift, the fabric of the towel sticks to my hip. I’m coated in dried sweat, slick, and the heavy, musky scent of the heat.
I grimace, pulling back slightly. “I can’t put clean clothes on. I’m…gross. I feel sticky.”
Eli’s gaze sweeps over me. “You’re right. Bath first.”
“I can’t climb the stairs,” I whisper, the embarrassment burning low in my cheeks. “My legs are jelly.”
“Guest bath is down the hall, remember,” Rhys says easily. He stands up, and the world tilts as he scoops me off the couch, towel and all. “Deep tub. Lots of hot water.”
He carries me out of the living room, down the short hallway, and into the guest bathroom.
There he sets me on the closed toilet lid while Knox reaches past him to start the water.
Eli moves to the counter, flicking on the softer of the two light switches, then pulls a fresh stack of towels from the cabinet and sets them within arm’s reach.
Steam billows up, fogging the mirror in seconds. Declan twists the tap hotter, then reaches for a bottle of body wash in the shower caddy. He tips it under the stream until the water turns pearly and thick with bubbles.
I’m watching the bubbles when suddenly, Rhys’s arms are under my knees and shoulders, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
“Rhys—” I start, reaching for the edge of the tub on instinct. My fingers slip on the damp porcelain.
His grip tightens before I can pitch forward. “You don’t need the wall,” he says, pulling me tighter. “You have me.”
Heat wraps around me as he settles me into the water, and a helpless sound slips out of me, half-groan, half-sigh. Rhys’s arms tighten instantly. A low, possessive rumble starts in his chest, vibrating against my back like a purr.
My whole body tries to melt at once.
Rhys steps into the water behind me, sweatpants and all. He sits, drawing me back until my shoulders rest against his chest and his thighs bracket my hips on either side. His arms come around like a second wall so there’s no chance of me sliding under.
“Relax,” he murmurs into my damp hair. “That’s your only job.”
Knox is already kneeling at the side of the tub, hand held out. Declan passes him a sponge heavy with suds without needing to be asked. Eli takes the washcloth, wets it, and starts running it gently along my collarbone and the tops of my shoulders where they’re not submerged.
Warm, soaked terry meets my foot. Knox lifts it out of the water, cradling my heel in his palm, and begins to run the sponge over my arch in long strokes. He works up over my ankle, my calf, his thumb pressing into the tight line of muscle there like he knows exactly where it aches.
When he reaches my thigh, his gaze snags and his hand stops.
I follow his gaze down. The bruise on my hip is blooming purple and blue, dark against my pale skin. It’s the shape of a large hand spanning the bone. Exactly where he held me down.