Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
BONES
Grace was shaking so hard I could feel the tremors through my arm, even with her barely leaning on me. Light contact. Bare minimum pressure. She was trying not to touch me more than she had to.
That wasn’t going to work.
The guest room was clear. I swept it myself before I let her in. AB and Voodoo had the rest of the house. Her assailant was unconscious and zip-tied to a radiator in the office. Nothing was getting to her.
I walked her into the adjoining bathroom—clean tile, soft lighting, nothing sharp in sight. Neutral ground. A place that wouldn’t trigger anything unless she projected it there herself.
Her breath started to hitch the second she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She froze. Went rigid. Like she expected the glass to judge her.
“Don’t look at that,” I said quietly.
She flinched at the sound of my voice. Not from fear—startle response. Too much adrenaline, too much shock running through a body running on fumes.
Her fingers clenched harder in my shirt. She tried to pull back. “Bones… I—I don’t want you to see me like this.”
I angled my body between her and the mirror. “Grace.”
Just her name. Low. Solid. Something she could push against if she needed to.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Her gaze was fixed somewhere around my collarbone, unfocused.
“I pissed myself,” she whispered. “I threw up on myself. I’m—” Her breath cracked. “I’m disgusting.”
Deep breath. I wrapped iron control around my responses. Grace didn’t need my rage. Not yet. We’d get there, but she needed something far different. Maybe Voodoo might have been the better choice to look after her. But I wanted to take care of her right now.
Pain and shame were two very different responses. The first was just information. You could ignore it, override it, or just compartmentalize it under something survivable. The second? It just didn’t work that way. Shame rewired the whole system if you let it.
“Grace,” I murmured again, slower this time, “none of that matters.”
Her breath came fast and shallow. “To you.”
“To me,” I said, “especially to me.”
That got her attention. Her eyes flicked up—quick, uncertain.
She didn’t pull away this time when I reached out and brushed my fingers along her forearm. Barely a touch. Just enough to remind her she was here, in the present, not back in that warehouse. Not in that room.
“Sit,” I said, guiding her toward the closed toilet lid. Soft voice. Command underneath it. She listened more to tone than words right now.
She sat, elbows on her knees, fingers locked tight. The shaking hadn’t stopped. Her whole body looked like it was trying to outrun the memory of the last hour.
I grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet, ran warm water over one corner. Routine movement. Predictable. Safe. I wrung out the excess.
When I knelt in front of her, her eyes widened. “Bones, you don’t have to—”
“I know what I have to do.” I met her gaze. “And what I’m choosing to do.”
Color rose on her neck. Embarrassment. Vulnerability. And something underneath all that—something she didn’t have a name for yet.
Her voice was barely audible. “I don’t want to get anything on you.”
“Grace.” The word came out softer than I intended. “Nothing on you scares me.”
Her breath hitched.
I lifted the towel and touched it to her cheek—slow, deliberate. She made a small sound, too soft to classify. Not pain. Not fear. Something closer to relief.
“I don’t want—” she tried again. “I don’t want you to have to clean me.”
“You think this bothers me?” I asked, gently wiping away the dried edge of vomit at the corner of her mouth.
Her lashes fluttered. She tried to pull back; I followed, keeping the touch steady, controlled.
“I’m dirty,” she whispered. The shock was still visible in her blue eyes, her pupils huge.
“You fought,” I corrected. “You survived. That’s not dirty.”
I kept working—jawline, temple, the edge of her neck. Every motion precise. No rush. No hesitation. I’d cleaned blood off teammates in worse conditions. I’d cleaned worse off myself.
But this wasn’t about sanitation. This was about giving her back control, one inch at a time.
“Lift your chin,” I said.
She did. Shaky. Trusting me in spite of herself.
Warm water caught the scars on my knuckles as I worked. She noticed. She always did. And when her gaze traced the line of my hand, something inside her steadied for half a second.
“That’s it,” I murmured.
Her breathing evened out by degrees. Not steady. Not calm. But no longer the edge of collapse.
When I finished with her face, I set the towel aside and reached for another. “We’re going to take this slow. I’ll talk through every step. You stop me if anything feels wrong.”
She nodded, small and tight.
But when I reached for the first button on her blouse, her hand shot out and grabbed mine. Not to stop me—just to hold on.
Her grip was desperate. And warm. And shaking.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said, voice breaking.
“You’re not alone.” I leaned in, close enough for her to feel the heat of my breath. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Her fingers curled tighter around mine.
Outside in the hallway, a distant floorboard creaked—Voodoo or Alphabet moving through the sweep.
I ignored it. The only threat that mattered was already unconscious. The only timeline that mattered was the one in this room.
“Bones…?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
Her eyes flicked to the door, then back to me. “Is Ignacio still—?”
“He’s not waking up anytime soon,” I said, pocketing the name Ignacio. “And he’s not getting near you again.”
Some of the tension drained from her shoulders.
“Good,” she breathed. Then her eyes locked onto mine, sudden and sharp. “Don’t let him die.”
A request. No—an order wrapped in fear.
“We’ll keep him breathing,” I promised. “Until you’re done with him.”
Her pulse jumped at her throat. She didn’t argue.
I reached for the buttons again. Slow. Careful. Prepared to stop if she so much as twitched wrong.
“Ready?” I asked.
Grace nodded once.
Steady.
Brave.
Shaking so hard she couldn’t hide it.
I began to undo the first button.
Not touching more than necessary. Not pushing farther than she could handle.
But staying close enough that she could feel the heat of me—close enough she knew she wasn’t doing this alone.
As the blouse loosened, inch by inch, I felt the shift.
Not sexual. Not yet. Something deeper. Trust with teeth. The kind that could wreck a man if he wasn’t careful. The kind I’d already decided I wasn’t going to run from.
Grace’s fingers were still knotted around mine when I reached the second button of her blouse. They weren’t holding me back—just holding on. Big difference. Her breathing hitched again when the damp fabric pulled away from her skin.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “You’re okay.”
Her eyes slid away, jaw tight like she was bracing for judgment. There wasn’t any. I worked the buttons loose one at a time. Slow. Predictable. Talking her through every inch.
“You tell me to stop, I stop,” I said. “You tell me to back off, I back off. You run the pace here.”
She nodded, throat bobbing. “I don’t like that you have to do this.”
“Grace,” I said, meeting her eyes because she needed that connection more than she needed modesty, “I’ve seen my teammates covered in blood, shit, and engine grease. I’ve cleaned worse off Voodoo at three a.m. while he insulted my entire family tree.”
That made her lips twitch—barely, but it was movement in the right direction.
Her blouse slipped off one shoulder. She inhaled sharply, instinctively trying to cross her arms to hide—then stopped when she realized that contact only pressed the fabric against her.
She grimaced again.
“Hey,” I murmured. “Look at me.”
It took a moment, but she did.
“You’re not broken,” I said. “Not ruined. Not dirty. Your body did what bodies do under shock.”
She swallowed hard, tears burning in her eyes but not falling. “I should’ve been stronger.”
“You were,” I said. “Stronger than you think. You’re sitting here breathing—that’s strength. You threw a goddamn paperweight at a man who clearly terrified you. That’s strength.”
Her breath shuddered. Her blouse slid the rest of the way down, and I caught it before it hit the floor. No need to let her see it again.
I moved to her skirt next, hands deliberate.
She stiffened.
“Grace,” I said, keeping contact with her knuckles, “I want you to hear something.”
She blinked at me, waiting. Fragile, furious with herself, and trying not to come apart.
“My first real firefight,” I said, “I threw up.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, startled. “You… what?”
I shrugged, deadpan. “All over my vest. And my boots. And Voodoo’s boots. He still brings it up if he wants to win an argument.”
A tiny breath escaped her. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“I mean,” I added, “I hit the guy attacking me, but I’d already puked on myself. There’s a photo. Alphabet found it. He pretends he’s going to use it as blackmail bait.”
Her grip eased a little. Color warmed her cheeks—something that wasn’t shame this time.
“You?” she whispered. “You got sick?”
“Threat level, high,” I said dryly. “Nausea, higher. Bodies do things under stress. Doesn’t mean shit about who you are.”
Her shoulders slowly—very slowly—unclenched.
I kept talking as my hands moved to the waistband of her skirt, giving her every chance to stop me. “I didn’t feel strong then. Didn’t feel capable. But I still did the job.”
“And I…?” she asked, voice small.
“You did more than the job,” I told her. “You survived a man who thinks he owns you. Then you threw things at every bastard who came for you. I call that an A-plus performance under pressure.” I would keep telling her, over and over, until she heard it and believed me.
Her breath trembled, but her chin lifted. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echoed. “I’m going to undo this now.”
She nodded.
I unzipped the skirt. Fabric loosened. She didn’t stop me.
Didn’t flinch. When I helped her to her feet, she just breathed.
It was slow, if shaky, as I peeled the panties down with the skirt and when she stepped out of both.
Her top and bra went next. I kept my eyes on her face the entire time.
Not because I didn’t want to look at her—I wanted to.
God, I wanted to—but because she needed to see respect reflected back at her right now.
Once she was out of the soiled clothes, I wrapped a clean towel around her, tucking the ends in over her breasts gently.
“You’re safe,” I said again, softer. “And you’re clean enough to move. We’ll finish the rest in the shower once you’re steady on your feet.”
She nodded, leaning the slightest bit toward me. Not much. But enough that I shifted closer and braced a hand against the counter so she could lean if she needed.
I stood, gathering the ruined clothes, rolled them up, then pulled a bag out of one of the pouches on my belt.
I sacked up the clothing. I wasn’t leaving her clothes here.
I also wasn’t leaving them where she could see them.
“I’m going to find you some fresh clothes.
The housekeeper’s closet probably has something neutral. Sit here. Don’t move until I’m back.”
She nodded again.
Before I could take a step, the comm crackled.
“Bones? Grace? Status check.” Alphabet’s voice. Tight. Edges controlled. He worried about us like other people worried about their own heartbeat.
I clicked my comm on. “We’re good,” I said, but she hadn’t said anything and that was a tell more than anything else. “Grace is with me.” He needed to know.
“Copy that,” Alphabet said—but I could hear the tension. “Goblin and I are two rooms out. Bringing him in.”
Grace straightened at that. Not panic—anticipation.
A moment later, the door creaked open and Goblin—the massive Staffy who loved Grace as he only ever had Alphabet—padded inside like he owned the place.
Grace made a tiny, broken noise as he went straight to her. Not sniffing. Not cautious. He walked up and pressed his big head against her thigh like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.
Her whole body softened. Shoulders dropped. Breath finally escaped her lungs in something close to relief.
Her fingers slid along his back. “Hey, baby,” she whispered.
Goblin let out a low, rumbling woof, then licked her wrist, leaning harder into her.
Alphabet hovered in the doorway, eyes flicking from Grace to me, doing a silent assessment.
“She’s good?” he asked, in a low voice that wouldn’t carry. Nor would the doubt lacing the question.
“She will be,” I said.
“I’ll stand guard,” Alphabet said. “Voodoo is keeping the housekeeper secured. The prisoner is still out.”
“Find her some clothes first?”
“On it.” Alphabet was gone on a soft step.
Grace buried her face in Goblin’s neck for a long second. When she lifted her head, her eyes found mine—not panicked, not lost. Just present.
“I can stand,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to rush.”
She shook her head, one hand still in Goblin’s fur. “I want to.”
I stepped forward, offered her my hand. No pressure. No demand.
She took it.
Her fingers were steadier this time.
When she stood, she leaned—just slightly, just enough—into my side. Goblin stuck close at her other leg, flanking her.
“Let’s get you clean,” I murmured.
Together—slow, steady—we moved toward the shower.