Chapter 31
Wyatt drove back to his house, hands locked on the wheel.
Jen was silent in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed on the deepening blue of the sky as night settled. She hadn’t moved in miles.
The last of the daylight caught the darkness of her lashes, the curve of her mouth. She had no idea how she looked right now—soft and unguarded in his passenger seat, wearing borrowed clothes, her hair loose against the headrest. His chest was tight, just soaking her in.
The car’s engine purred and the road unspooled beneath the headlights. It was too quiet, providing too much space for everything he wasn’t letting himself think about.
Not yet.
He flexed his fingers on the wheel, forcing them to loosen. Not now, when the adrenaline hadn’t fully burned off. Not when she’d been running on fumes for hours.
Whatever this thing was between them—it deserved daylight. A clear head and choice. But as the tires hummed beneath them and the sky turned indigo above, a different thought took hold.
Maybe it didn’t have to end when she healed. Maybe he wasn’t just a weapon anymore.
With Jen, he could be more than what they made him.
He’d wanted before. Craved distraction, release, someone to take the edge off.
But this wasn’t that.
This was unfamiliar.
He wanted to care for her. Stay—not just step in. To be someone she could lean on. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to hope.
Maybe this could work.
He swallowed against the tightness rising in his throat and kept driving.
When they arrived home, he took her hand. She replied with a small squeeze of his fingers as they entered his house.
“I’ve got just the thing for after a long ride.”
Her lips parted, but he held up a hand. “Wine and a hot bath. Sound good?”
“Sounds amazing.” A smile tipped her lips.
He dropped his hand and stepped away before he forgot himself. “Come on.”
He led her into the main bathroom. Azure tiles wrapped the room, deep and cool, the blue that always made him think of water—depth and quiet.
“Sit.”
He guided her down into the chair with light pressure on her shoulders, then turned to the tub. He set the water hot enough to ease sore muscles but not scalding and poured in the salts he saved for days when his body reminded him he wasn’t twenty-five anymore.
The tub filled slowly, steam rising in pine-scented white clouds. In the under-sink cabinet he found candles and lit them above the bath. He straightened and caught himself. Candles. He was lighting candles. The man who’d killed people with his bare hands was lighting candles beside a bathtub.
Fuck it.
She deserved candles. Soft light flickered across the tiles as he checked the temperature of the water once more.
Perfect.
“I’ll grab you a robe while you soak. White wine?”
“Oh. That would be lovely.” Her cheeks were flushed—warmth, exhaustion, something else he didn’t touch.
“I’ll be back in five.”
He poured the wine, gathered a fresh robe, then knocked softly before re-entering.
“Come in.”
Jen was in the bath. He set the glass on the wide edge of the tub and hung the robe within reach.
Don’t look. Look away. Fuck, I’m looking.
Just long enough to register the curve of her spine, the bruises blooming dark across her ribs. Evidence of what she’d survived.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll let you—”
Her hand closed around his wrist. “Wyatt.”
Her eyes held his. “You’re cold too. From the ride. Stay.”
His breath hitched. “Jen—”
“Please. Take the bath with me. If you want to.”
He stood there, muscles locked, trying to figure out what she was asking for. What she needed. What he could give without taking too much.
“If I want to—”
The truth he’d been avoiding slammed into him.
This wasn’t hunger. It was something far more dangerous.
“You sure?” He searched her face for doubt but only read certainty.
“Please.”
She closed her eyes, giving him privacy the way he’d given her.
Wyatt stripped. Sweater first, then pants, the sound of fabric hitting the floor loud in the quiet room. Steam wrapped around him, warm and close, but he felt exposed anyway—bare in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
He checked his thigh—the waterproof dressing keeping the stitches dry—then stepped into the bath behind her.
The tub was deep. When he settled back, the water rose and sloshed against the sides, heat pressing in around them. His legs bracketed hers.
She was right there.
“Lean back,” he said, voice hushed.
Her spine met his chest. Warm skin. Solid weight.
A jolt of heat slammed through him.
His body reacted instantly.
Fuck.
He locked it down. Hard. He closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping perfectly still. On anything except the fact that she was naked and pressed against him, and every nerve ending he had was screaming at him to—
No.
Her breathing was even and slow. She’d let go completely. He drew a careful breath and released it, resting his arms on the porcelain edge on either side of her.
She fit against him too easily. Her head near his shoulder. Her legs aligned with his under the water. Nothing between them but heat and bubbles and the thin, fraying line of his restraint.
Don’t rush this.
“I could wash your hair.”
She sighed, the sound small and tired. “I’d love that.”
She shifted forward to give him room. Water sluiced down her back, and his thighs tensed as her weight moved, settled again. He remained motionless for reasons that had nothing to do with the water.
“Lean your head back.”
Her throat tilted toward him, her eyes closed.
Steady hands. Breathe. Don’t ruin this by wanting too much.
He worked water through her hair. Dark strands slicked under his palms, turning black. Each movement sent ripples through the bath, her body shifting minutely with the water, pressing back into him.
Skin on skin. No barriers.
Just warmth and water and her.
He wanted her. And not just this. His want had roots in it—deep ones that scared him.
He gritted his teeth and reached for the shampoo. The clean, minty scent bloomed between them. He worked it into her scalp with careful fingers, firm but gentle. Circles. Pressure.
She made a quiet sound—barely there. Just breath leaving her body. Heat shot through him. His hands stilled, fingers buried in her hair. His jaw locked so tight it hurt.
She’s not asking for that. This isn’t that.
He forced himself to breathe. To keep going, finding tangles and working them loose with patience he didn’t know he had. Focusing on the task and absolutely not on the way her shoulders had gone loose, or how she leaned back into him as if she’d forgotten how to hold herself up.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Mm-hm.”
He rinsed her hair, unhooking the shower attachment and letting the water run through it, something practical to focus on instead of how good she felt against him.
Her eyes remained closed, her mouth soft and relaxed. As if she’d set something heavy down and trusted him to keep watch.
The sight of her like this—trusting, unbraced—hit him harder than any firefight.
He worked the conditioner through her hair, slow and careful, memorizing the feel of it sliding through his fingers, silk-smooth as he rinsed it clean.
He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. And he’d never been more determined not to.
“All done,” he said quietly.
She didn’t move. The water lapped softly against porcelain, steam drifting in slow curls along the tiles.
“We should rinse off,” she murmured.
“Yeah.”
He offered his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet.
He stood behind her, unhooked the shower head, and guided the water slowly from her shoulders to her calves, careful and methodical—giving himself something to focus on besides the way candlelight turned her wet skin to gold.
He’d seen a lot of beautiful things—sunsets over the Pacific, mountains at dawn, the ocean from forty feet.
None of them came close to her.
He kept his gaze where it needed to be. Mostly.
His body was a mess of want and restraint, heat and discipline. Every instinct screamed at him to pull her closer, turn her around, take what they both—
No.
Not like this. Not when she’d trusted him with this. He could want her and still do the right thing.
He was doing the right thing.
He shut off the water. The sudden quiet was loud.
She turned to face him. Water dripped from her hair, running in paths over the curve of her shoulders. “Wyatt.”
His name in her voice.
He stilled, every muscle rigid. “Yeah?”
Jen ran her hands down his arms, careful of his healing wound, coming to rest at his wrists. “I want you.”
The words hit low and slow, like gravity.
He searched her face, committing it to memory—the brightness in her eyes, the absence of fear, making sure this was what she meant. What she wanted. What she would still want tomorrow.
“Say it again,” he said softly.
“I want you.”
His breath left him. He lifted one hand, stopping just short of her cheek, giving her every chance to pull back.
When she didn’t, he cupped her cheek. Her skin was warm and damp beneath his palm.
Everything he’d been holding back all night, all day, every hour since she’d kissed him in the lifeboat—gathered behind his ribs like a held breath.
And finally, he let himself exhale.