CHAPTER 23
ALESSIA P.O.V.
I grip the edges of the cold marble sink until my knuckles go completely white and bloodless.
The woman staring back at me in the massive expanse of the mirror is a deadass stranger.
Hair matted with dried sweat, salt, and god knows what else.
Eyes blown so wide they look utterly vacant.
I’m breathing like I just sprinted a marathon, shallow and hitching every two seconds as the high-octane adrenaline from the shipyard raid evaporates, leaving me absolutely hollowed out and freezing.
I pick at a small, jagged chip in the marble countertop.
I dig my nail into it over and over until the cuticle splits and bleeds, but I don't feel a fucking thing.
The HVAC system hums like a distant jet engine.
The air smells like gunpowder and that expensive, woodsy soap Leon uses.
I don't recognize my own eyes. They look like his now. Cold. Flat. Lethal.
A phantom wave of cordite and copper hits my nose, and I squeeze my eyes shut, but the darkness is so much worse.
It’s a literal projection screen showing the rival leader’s face in the strobe-light flicker of the muzzle flash.
I can still feel the kickback of the Glock vibrating up my right arm, a phantom recoil that just won't stop ringing through my bones.
I rub my right index finger against my thumb repeatedly, trying to erase the physical sensation of the trigger pull.
The metallic taste of old blood pools in the back of my throat.
My left ear is still ringing from the shot.
It was so quiet in my head. Why was the exact moment he died so fucking quiet?
I lunge for the heavy brass handles of the walk-in shower, cranking the heat up until the pipes physically groan behind the wall.
I don't wait for it to adjust. Thick, heavy steam immediately starts rolling over the glass enclosure like a fog bank, blurring the rest of the opulent bathroom until I’m trapped in a white-out box.
I fumble with the buttons of my discarded shirt.
My fingers are so numb and useless I end up just gripping the collar and ripping the fabric down the middle to get the motherfucker off me.
Burn it out. If I can just get my skin hot enough, maybe the memory won't stick.
I step directly under the spray. The water is punishingly hot, borderline scalding, and the sting is exactly what I need.
It beads off my shoulders, washing away the grit, the dirt, and the lingering scent of Leon’s possessive grip from an hour ago.
I stand there with my head bowed, waiting for some kind of absolution that obviously isn't coming. I lean my forehead against the slick, dark tile, letting the water violently pelt the back of my neck. The rhythmic drumming of the water on the floor is deafening. I watch a pinkish tint swirl down the drain, carrying away a stray drop of blood from my temple. I’m still wearing it. It’s physically under my skin.
The first tremor hits my hands, and within seconds, it cascades all the way up my arms and into my chest. My entire body starts racking with violent, uncontrollable shudders.
It’s not a chill. It’s a total nervous system collapse.
My teeth chatter so hard my jaw aches, and my breath starts coming in jagged, wheezing hitches that echo off the glass.
I try to wrap my arms around myself, digging my fingers into my own ribs, but my muscles are wound so tight they feel like piano wire about to snap.
Stop it. Get your shit together, Heller.
Fall apart later. Not right fucking now.
But my legs don't care about my internal pep talk. My strength gives out all at once. My knees buckle, and I slide down the slick marble wall, my bare skin squeaking terribly against the stone. I hit the floor of the shower and instantly curl into a tight ball, resting my forehead on my knees while the water pours over me in a relentless, pounding weight. I dig my toes into the grout lines of the floor, desperately trying to find some kind of traction in a reality that feels completely unhinged. The roar of the water drowns out everything. I’m drowning on dry land.
I reach blindly for the loofah sponge, pouring a massive glob of liquid soap onto it with shaking hands.
I start scrubbing my forearms with absolute manic intensity.
I’m not just washing; I’m scouring the top layer of my epidermis off.
I drag my nails through the thick lather, scratching at my own flesh until bright red welts rise up, trying to erase the phantom stickiness of the blood I swear I can still see coating my hands.
The sponge slips out of my grip and skitters across the wet floor.
I let out a strangled, furious sound and scramble forward on my hands and knees to grab it.
The steam smells like lavender and eucalyptus—too clean, too medicinal.
My own fingernails sting from digging into my skin. Get it off. Get it fucking off me.
A broken sob rips out of my throat before I can stop it.
I instantly slam both hands over my mouth, pressing hard enough to bruise my own lips, trying to shove the sound back down.
I can't be weak. Not here. Not in his territory.
But the heavy bathroom door swings open with a solid thud.
Even over the roar of the water and through the thick veil of steam, I feel him.
The air pressure in the room immediately shifts, charged with that dark, suffocating gravitational pull he always brings with him.
I try to shrink further back into the corner of the shower, pulling my knees tighter to my chest. Don't look at me.
Please, Christ, just don't look at me like this.
Leon stands in the doorway, a massive silhouette of absolute control against the white tiles.
He’s fully dressed. Dark tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
His dark hair is slightly mussed, his jaw set in a hard, ruthless line.
He doesn't say a fucking word. He just watches me through the frosted glass.
His ice-blue eyes track the pathetic, shaking movement of my shoulders.
He reaches up and slowly, deliberately unbuttons one silver cufflink, never taking his eyes off me, and sets it on the marble vanity.
"You’re still shaking, Alessia."
He’s seeing it. He’s seeing the exact spot where I broke, and he’s going to use it against me.
Without waiting for an invitation he’s never needed, Leon grabs the handle and pulls the glass door open.
He doesn't strip. He doesn't kick off his six-hundred-dollar leather shoes.
He steps directly into the scalding deluge.
The water instantly soaks his expensive dark trousers and his white shirt.
The fabric turns translucent on contact, clinging to his broad chest and highlighting the jagged scars tracking across his ribs.
The hem of his trousers darkens instantly, soaking up the water pooling on the floor.
"Stop," I choke out.
He keeps moving, predatory and unbothered by the fact that he is completely ruining his clothes.
As he reaches down for me, I lash out. I shove my hands hard against his soaking wet knees, shaking my head so violently my wet hair slaps against my face.
I want to be alone. I want to bleed out my guilt without an audience.
"Get out. Just... get out."
My palms slip against his wet thighs, leaving streaks of soap suds on the dark, rough wool of his pants.
"No."
I can't let him see the bottom. I just can't.
Leon’s massive hands close around my wrists.
The grip is iron-tight, a physical manifestation of his absolute authority, but he doesn't squeeze hard enough to bruise the bone.
He slowly, inexorably pulls my hands away from my face.
I try to yank back, but he just pins my wrists flat against the wet marble wall on either side of my head, locking me entirely into his space.
He steps closer, using one of his wet knees to gently but firmly wedge my legs apart, taking up the space between them.
"Look at me. Alessia. Look at me."
The steam makes his dark eyelashes wet. The pressure of his thumbs digs right into my pulse points, forcing me to feel the beat of my own blood. His eyes are so blue they look like ice laid over an open flame.
He releases my wrists, drops his hands down, and hooks them right under my armpits.
With a low grunt of effort, he hoists me completely off the floor.
I’m dead weight, but he hauls me up like I weigh absolutely nothing and stands me against the wall.
His large, soaking-wet body acts as a pillar.
I instinctively clutch his wet shoulders to keep from sliding back down the slick tile.
"Lean on me. I’ve got you," he orders.
The heavy, soggy weight of his soaked shirt presses against my bare chest. I can feel the vibration of his voice rumbling deep in his sternum. He’s so aggressively solid. He’s literally the only thing in this room not spinning out of control.
He reaches down and picks up the sponge I dropped.
With slow, methodical strokes, he starts to wash me.
He drags the soapy sponge over my shoulders, down my back, and across my collarbones.
It’s clinical but insanely possessive. He isn't rushing. He’s methodically erasing the crime scene off my skin.
He tilts my head back, placing one large finger right under my chin, and washes the soap from my throat.
"You’re clean, Alessia. Do you hear me?"
"It’s gone," I whisper, my voice cracking.