Chapter 13 #2
The last bag goes out with Orien’s final trip downstairs, and when he returns, he locks the door behind him, turns the deadbolt, and hangs my keys on the hook by the door.
He must have found them out in the hall where he found my fox.
I never even questioned it until now, which proves that everything, in fact, is not okay.
He crosses to the bed and sits close enough for his body heat to seep through the blanket, but not so close as to crowd me. “How are you doing?”
The question hangs between us, too simple and too complicated all at once.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I can’t…I keep seeing it. Hearing it. Feeling it.”
“That’s normal,” he says, as if he expected nothing less. “It will fade.”
“Will it?” I don’t mean to sound desperate, but the words come out ragged, anyway.
“Yes.” No hesitation, no uncertainty. Just a flat, simple fact. “It will.”
He gently brushes my hair back from my forehead. The touch is so careful, so soft, that my eyes burn with fresh tears.
“I need to check that you washed everything away,” he says, careful enough not to startle me. “Okay?”
I nod.
His fingers move to my hairline, brushing through the damp strands with careful attention. “Did you wash your hair in the shower?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Three times. With the clarifying shampoo.”
His touch moves to the nape of my neck, fingers ruffling the short strands of hair. “What about behind your ears?”
“Yes.”
His fingers comb through the damp strands with meticulous attention. Nothing about the examination is intimate, yet the care behind it leaves me raw. As though I’m precious. As though I’m worth preserving.
Finally, his hands drop to my shoulders. “You did well, trouble. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The simple statement cracks my chest wide open, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making any noise. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not after my parents died. Not when Alexei took over the family business. Not the first time I killed someone.
I’ve always been told to be strong and not show emotion, because that’s a sign of weakness.
Orien’s thumb brushes across my lower lip where my teeth have left an impression. “Don’t do that. You’ve been through enough.”
His gentleness undoes me. A sob breaks free before I can stop it, followed by another, and suddenly I’m crying again, tears streaming down my cheeks as my body shakes with the force of it.
Orien doesn’t pull away or tell me to stop or pull myself together. He just sits beside me, rubbing my back and making soothing sounds as he waits for the storm to pass.
It takes longer than it should. Longer than I want it to. But eventually, the tears slow, then stop, leaving me hollow and wrung out and mortified to have broken down in front of this strong Alpha.
“I’m sorry,” I manage past the knot in my throat. “I don’t usually—”
“Stop.” His hand slides from my shoulder to cup my nape. “Just…stop.”
I lean into his touch, and his thumb traces a slow circle at the base of my skull.
“We’re not done yet,” he says after a moment. “But we’re close.”
Too tired to speak, I nod against his palm.
Orien gives me a gentle squeeze before he pulls away to stand. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
On his way to the bathroom, the broad line of his back and the square set of his shoulders hold my attention. He moves with the same unhurried confidence that first caught my attention, compelling a second look when I should have been gathering intelligence and moving on.
He returns a moment later with a small leather case. “Sit up. I need to check your hands.”
I push myself upright, still clutching the stuffed fox, and the movement sends a fresh wave of dizziness through me.
Orien sits beside me again, closer this time, and reaches for my right hand, his fingers sliding over the pads of my fingertips, between my digits, and over my palms.
“Hold still. This won’t take long.” He opens the leather case to reveal a pair of nail clippers, a small file, and a set of tweezers.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.
Orien raises one eyebrow. “Problem?”
“I already scrubbed my hands raw in the shower. There aren’t any traces left.”
Instead of answering, he picks up the tweezers and bends over my hand, his focus absolute as he works a tiny sliver of glass from the crease of my thumb. It comes free with a sting, and Orien holds it up to the light, studying it with a frown.
“How…?”
“Shock and alcohol can block out a lot,” he murmurs. “You’re going to hurt tomorrow.”
He drops the piece of glass into the trash beside the bed and trades the tweezers for the nail clippers. “Now, hold still. I’m going to check under your nails.”
“I already—”
“Trouble.” The softness remains, but the steel beneath snaps my mouth shut. “Let me do this. Please.”
The please does me in. I’ve never heard Orien say please before. Not to anyone, but especially not to me.
So, I sit still and let him take my hand again, his fingers warm as he checks beneath each nail.
He finds two more tiny slivers of glass, which he removes with the same careful attention, then he clips and files my nails into smooth ovals.
When he finishes, he places my hand back on the stuffed fox and lifts my left hand to give it the same level of attention.
It should be embarrassing. It should make me want to pull away, to insist I can take care of myself and don’t need to be handled as if I’m fragile.
Instead, that awareness that’s been building since the first day we met sinks its hooks deeper.
I study him as he focuses on my hand. He has a small scar at the corner of his mouth, a thin white line that appears when he frowns. His eyelashes are longer than they have any right to be, dark fans on his cheekbones as he studies each nail before clipping it.
He’s beautiful in the way dangerous things sometimes are. The kind of beauty that fills you with the desire to reach out even when you know you shouldn’t.
The thought comes unbidden, rising from the back of my mind, where I’ve been trying to separate myself from the persona I’m playing. But none of this is an act. It never really has been, if I’m honest with myself, and I don’t have the energy to lie right now.
He finishes with the file and sets it aside with the clippers. “There. All done.”
I inspect my hands. They’re neat enough to pass for freshly manicured. “Thank you.”
He lifts the untouched glass of water and wraps my fingers around it. “Drink. All of it.”
I do as he asks, the cool liquid soothing my raw throat.
When I finish, he takes the empty glass and replaces it with the food container. “Eat. Your body needs more than whiskey and fried food.”
The container holds chicken and rice, steam still rising from it in gentle curls. My stomach turns over at the sight, nausea rising at the thought of food.
“Just a few bites,” he commands, brooking no argument. “It’ll help with the crash.”
He’s right. I know he is. The alcohol’s already starting to wear off, leaving a dull headache in its wake, and the adrenaline crash isn’t far behind. If I don’t get food into my system soon, the headache will intensify, and my energy will crater.
So I take the container and a fork and make myself eat. The chicken is tender, the rice flavored with garlic and herbs, and despite my lack of appetite, I immediately go back for another bite.
I work my way through the food under Orien’s quiet scrutiny. By the time I reach the halfway point, the tension in his shoulders eases. “Better?”
I nod.
“Good.” He smooths a hand over my hair, and I lean into his touch, suddenly needing more of it.
A whimper rises from the back of my throat, and I set the food aside to lean forward and capture Orien’s mouth in a desperate kiss.