Chapter 10 #3
He rears his head back at my sharp words.
“My help doesn’t come with any conditions.
I don’t need you to repay me for any of it.
I’m offering because I wish to. Not because I expect to claim anything from you in return for it.
” His words send shame rolling through me and I sink further down into the water, as if I can hide from him.
My anger wilts like a dying bloom. “Now, will you let me help you?”
“Fine,” I mumble, bringing my knees up to my chest, further concealing my bare body. I wrap my good arm around my knees, holding them to me.
He shakes his head in exasperation and heads into the bathing room, kneeling behind me so he can reach my hair. “Stubborn woman,” I hear him mutter, which brings a small smile to my face.
“Demanding male,” I whisper back with no bite.
I keep my back facing him, but I can hear the rustling as he pushes up the sleeves of the loose shirt he must have changed into while I was in the bath. The pop of a cork echoes in the mostly quiet room as he opens the bottle of shampoo and pours a generous amount into his palm.
“Can you dunk your hair back to get it wet again?” I do as he asks, and I get a grunt in thanks before his fingertips begin to massage the soap through my scalp and hair.
My eyes flutter closed against their will.
Every now and again there’s a slight tug as his fingers snag on a particularly tangled knot, but he’s incredibly gentle as he works to detangle the pieces and lather them.
The pressure he uses is enough to soothe my racing mind and relax my tense body.
It feels so good. I might have to keep him around to wash my hair whenever I need it because it never feels this good when I do it.
A warming tingle spreads from where he works to massage the shampoo into my scalp.
“Do this a lot?” I ask, my voice coming out embarrassingly breathy.
“No,” he answers curtly, his voice tense.
Almost like he can sense how much pleasure I’m getting from the simple act of his washing my hair.
His hands slow before they’re removed entirely, and I bite back the whimper that threatens to spill out at the loss of contact.
“Can you dip it back under and hold it there so I can rinse the soap?”
It’s a struggle, but I do. I have to use my good hand to keep myself balanced, meaning I no longer have it wrapped around my knees.
My nipples are still concealed by my legs, but the upper curves of my breasts are on display more than previously.
I can feel my cheeks heat at even having that much of me exposed to him.
I look up at him, in this position able to take in his face from upside down, and I have to hand it to him.
He’s doing a better job than I would expect any other man to do when presented with this situation.
His eyes never leave where his hands are combing through the wet strands, working the shampoo out.
His jaw twitches as he clenches it. Is he angry?
He asked to do this. Knowing I would be in this state.
Or… is he disgusted? That seems the most likely now that I think about it.
I’m shorter than all the Fae women I’ve seen.
I’m curvier and nowhere near as muscular.
My features are more rounded and not chiseled from stone like his.
Of course he would find my appearance unattractive.
I hate how much that observation stings. I know I’ve just said we can’t be anything to each other than this weird ally situation, but I can’t help that I’m attracted to him, and he so clearly isn’t attracted to me.
Gods, Olivia. Stop being a hormonal teenager. So what if the big bad Fae male doesn’t like you. Life isn’t over because an attractive male isn’t attracted to you.
A throat clears and I realize I’ve once again lost myself in my thoughts and Bastian’s hands are no longer in my hair.
“You can lift your head now.” I do and he twists the soaking mass of hair to wring some of the water from it.
I think that’s it and he’s about to leave when I hear him moving around behind me again and returns to run his fingers through my hair with another cream of some sort.
“It’ll help me with tangles,” he says, voice rough.
He works the product through with his fingers before producing a comb, using it to fully detangle and finish the job.
“Okay, all finished.” He stands and dries his hand on the nearby hand towel.
“I’ll leave you to dry off and change. Come out when you’re ready for supper. ”
He slips through the door and shuts it quietly behind himself.
The sound of the latch serves to break the dam on my frazzled emotions and the tears finally burst free.
I slap my good hand over my mouth to smother the sound of my sobs.
I don’t know how good his hearing is, but I’d prefer he didn’t know I was falling apart right now.
I don’t even really know why I’m crying.
Maybe it’s a combination of things. I’m upset over Bastian.
I’m still frightened over my near-death experience.
I miss my aunt and Tom. I’m still terrified of being in this place.
And I’m terribly homesick. I know I said I wanted to experience more of life and see more of the world, but I don’t think this is entirely what I imagined when I made those declarations.
Gods, I can already picture the smug smirk of Tom as he tells me he told me so.
I’m not cut out for a life of adventure. I should’ve stayed in Willowbrook.
I remain in the tub until my tears finally dry up and the water cools.
Bracing my uninjured hand on the porcelain, I use it to gently heave myself out of the bath.
I dry myself off one-handed and crudely twist my wet hair up into the towel.
I retrieve the clothes he left for me and find a loose pair of black cotton trousers.
I smile at the string stitched into the waistband, perfect for tightening them to fit on my small frame.
Pulling them on, I look like a child trying on her mother’s clothes with how much they hang off me.
I have to roll the waistband a few times so I can actually get my feet through the legs of the pants.
I pull the string as tight as I can and tie it into a loose knot—the only thing I can manage with only one working hand.
The shirt is another loose long sleeve shirt, this one in a deep midnight blue.
His scent envelopes me as I slip the shirt over my head.
I step out into the bedroom and take in my face before I go find Bastian in the kitchen.
My eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. Dammit.
You can definitely tell I’ve been crying.
I can only hope that he won’t say anything about it as I walk from the room and spy him stirring something in a pot over the flames.
His eyes flick into my direction briefly as I drop into what has become my seat at the table.
He sets a bowl in front of me before he settles in across from me with his own bowl. He starts to shovel stew into his mouth, and I stare at him with my spoon in hand, hovering above the bowl.
I clear my throat, and his eyes jump up to mine and whatever he sees in my face causes him to pause his eating.
“I know I said it earlier, but I wanted to say that I’m grateful you showed up when you did.
And… for taking care of me. With my injuries and the bath. I don’t even know how I can repay you.”
His spoon drops abruptly into the bowl sending splatters of stew across the table and making me startle.
“I’ve already told you, my help is not transactional.
You don’t owe me anything and you don’t need to thank me either.
” I can see the truth swimming in the pools of his eyes.
He looks intently between my own, leaning forward in his seat.
He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, in and out.
“When I found you being drowned by the boggart, I was terrified, Liv. Not of the creature, but of… well, of losing you. I can’t really explain it and I know it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.
We’ve only known each other a few days but I have this strong feeling that I need to help you, get you home.
And when I thought you were dead, the wave of fear I felt at the fact that I’d failed you was nearly crippling. ”
I drop my spoon into the bowl also. “So, I’m simply a task to you?”
His eyes go wide with panic. “What? No, that’s not what I mean.
I just— it’s just—” He tugs at his hair.
“I’m doing a terrible job of this. I think…
I think that helping you right now is part of the path that the Fates have set out for me.
So, I guess you are kind of a task? But I do truly want to help.
There’s a reason you showed up here and why our paths crossed.
When I found you spying on the party on Samhain—”
“I wasn’t spying, I was watching,” I grumble, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms across my chest.
“Like I said, spying,” he smirks, but continues.
“I had this… feeling, this pull. I knew I needed to speak with you. And hearing your story, I figured that pull meant I needed to help you. I apologize if it sounds like you’re just a task set out by the Fates for me, but there must be a reason behind it.
And,” he pauses, the words sticking in his throat, “I’d also like to apologize for my anger when I did save you…
” He lets out a deep exhale. “I was frightened.”
His confession cuts deep to my core. I can feel the vulnerability in his words and it’s actually nice to know there’s more to him helping me than simple kindness.
It almost makes it easier to believe. Easier to open myself up to trusting him.
But I can’t help but wonder why the Fates have bound him to help me?
For what purpose? What are either of us supposed to get out of this?
I lift my hand, hesitating a moment before placing it over where his rests on the table. A wave of sensation travels up my arm at the contact. When I look up to meet his eyes, they’re focused on our hands, brows furrowed.
Shit, maybe he doesn’t want me to touch him.
I make to pull my hand back, but he flips his palm up in a flash, gripping my wrist and holding it in place, palm to palm.
“Bastian, I truly am sorry for the worry I caused you.” I offer him an apologetic smile. I pause a moment and look back to where our hands are joined, weighing whether or not I want to say the words. “Is it weird if I say that I felt some sort of weird pull towards the party?”
His eyes jump up to mine in shock. “You did?”
I nod. “I can’t really explain it and it wasn’t a feeling I’d ever felt before, besides with the wisps. I thought I was crazy, so I never said anything about it before but, yeah.”
“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. Maybe the Fates have their hands in the paths of human lives…” He pulls his hand away, returning to his attention to his meal, and I do the same.
We finish eating in silence, but one that feels more comfortable after our confessions. I hand my empty bowl to Bastian who trades me for the poultice he used earlier on my face.
“You should re-apply this before you go to sleep to ensure the cuts won’t scar. And then again when you wake.”
I cup the jar of the familiar smelling paste in my hands. “I appreciate your help.”
“What have I told you?” His words are stern, but there’s no heat behind them.
“I can’t just not express my gratitude, so you’ll have to get over it,” I say with a smug tilt to my chin.
He rolls his eyes but lets me leave.
I set the jar on top of the dresser in front of the mirror before I wander the room in search of my hair tie.
I finally locate it on the sink in the bathroom.
Flipping my damp hair upside down, I gather it together to tie it up into a messy knot on the top of my head when I realize, I can’t do it with only one hand.
I flip back upright with a grumble, shoving my hair back and behind my ears to the best of my ability.
Settling in at the dresser, I retrieve the glass jar and take a small scoop of the paste and flick my eyes to the mirror to locate the cuts and all thoughts leave me on a choked inhale.
Distantly, I hear the sound of shattering glass.
A curse.
Heavy, rushed footsteps.
But my eyes don’t leave the sight in the mirror.