28. Rose
Rose
Ilya does not protest as I guide him back towards my room, the warmth of his skin against mine all I need to convince me that he’s going to listen to what I said. He might be able to handle the big stuff, the scary stuff, the stuff, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not capable of doing my part, too.
We reach the bathroom, and I push open the door, guiding him to the edge of the tub.
He sits down and places his hands in his lap while I fuss with soap and a cloth to get him cleaned up.
Kneeling before him, I gently lift his hands into mine, examining the way they’re stained with everything he’s done to protect me and our child.
I wet the cloth with water and work some soap into his skin, slowly cleaning each finger off with meticulous care.
Ilya doesn’t pull back, doesn’t resist. For so long, he was stoic to the point of being unreadable to me.
But now, as I carefully lather up the soap around his hands, wiping away the dried blood with each movement, slowly removing the symbols of his brutality from his skin, it feels like something has shifted between us.
As though finally, he can see me for what I am: an equal, a partner in his world, instead of a problem he has to handle.
He watches me as I work but does not say a word, and I’m pretty sure I can tell what’s going through his mind right now.
Sometimes, it doesn’t need to be spoken out loud, not when it’s so clear that this goes deeper than just a simple cleaning of hands.
It feels reverent, like a statement neither of us can ignore.
As soon as I am done, he leans down to kiss me, catching my face in his hands and pulling me up to meet him.
The passion in his touch, the feel of it against my skin, the warmth of his mouth as he claims me, it takes me back to the day he fucked me on that table—when he made sure his men knew I belonged to him.
I almost think that’s what triggered Sergei to threaten me, but I wouldn’t go back and change it—not now, not ever.
Because it was on that day that I knew Ilya wanted me, that I knew he would go to any lengths to prove that, and I wouldn’t walk that back, not if it meant sacrificing where we are now.
"I’m not finished cleaning you up, you know," I murmur against his mouth.
He locks his arms around me, drawing me into him like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
"I can think of better ways to spend our time," he replies as he draws me to my feet, reaching into the shower cubicle to turn on the water. I hear the spray hit the ceramic tile below, and I grin as he pulls me in even closer, seemingly reluctant to give me a moment of space, as though he can hardly believe that I’m still beside him.
And I want to tell him, to remind him in any way I can, that I’m not going anywhere. That I could never dream of it now, after everything we’ve been through.
But I know he’s better off being shown than told, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.