34. Chapter Thirty-Four
My hands shake as I reach for the soap and washcloth. Anxiety curdles my gut, feeling her watching me as I keep my movements slow and clear. I might as well be naked with her for how exposed I feel.
I’m frightened of hurting her like I’ve been hurt.
Squirting soap on the washcloth, I say, “I’m going to wash your right arm first, okay? Get it over with.”
Her face pales even further, but she nods. Keeping my actions clinical, I carefully clean off the dirt and blood. She’s quiet, so the only sounds are the falling water and our heavy breaths. I think she’s just as afraid as I am; that should give me comfort, but it doesn’t.
The more I learn about Kyrielle, the more I desperately want to protect her. She’s brilliant, fierce, mischievous, and has one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever witnessed. At the mere idea of hurting her, I want to plummet to my death.
With each section of her body, I tell her ahead of time what I’m going to do. Tears stream down her face the entire time, face ruddy with shame. I can’t fix how she feels; all I can do is give her as much dignity as possible.
When her skin is pink and clean, it’s time to wash her hair. I look at the edge of the bathtub. “Do you think you could sit? I can stand, but you’re probably tired of standing.”
“Yeah. Help?”
“Of course.”
She spins and I carefully guide her to sit on a towel I’ve folded over the edge, mindful of her crooked wing. “I’m going to put shampoo in your hair now, okay?”
“Okay.”
After pouring it along her orange tresses, I work the shampoo into the wet strands. When my fingers methodically massage her scalp, she lets out a sinful moan. Ignoring the sound, I continue until her shoulders lower, inch by inch.
“Let’s wash this out real quick and I’ll do the conditioner next, okay?”
“Okay.”
I help her stand and gently tilt her head into the ridiculously hot shower, working the suds out until her hair is clean. After reseating her, I start with the conditioner. I’ve never played with a woman’s hair, let alone bathed one, but it’s more soothing than I would’ve expected.
She breaks the silence by asking, “Can I ask my second question?”
My fingers freeze and I frown at the back of her head. “Are you sure you want to do that right now?” Kyrielle nods, and I try to ignore the building dread. “Alright, what is it?”
There’s a few moments of silence, then she says, “Why don’t you throw away the expired food in your kitchen?”
I don’t know what exactly I expected her to ask, but it wasn’t that. The chuckle comes easily this time. “You get a total of five questions, and that’s the one?”
She shrugs her good shoulder. “You had a lot of expired food, Trinte.”
Another chuckle rumbles in my chest, because she’s not wrong. “This is a judgment free zone, correct?”
“Very correct.”
After last night, I thought there’d be some negative effects of sharing. But since admitting to her about one of my rapes, I’m lighter in some regards. So sharing, no holds barred, feels like the right thing to do.
Still massaging her scalp, I say, “My father was not — is not — a good man. He blamed me for the death of his wife, and as such, made it a daily point to remind me.”
“His wife wasn’t your mom?”
My hands still. A ringing fills my ears, pressure building immediately. “She was my mother.”
Kyrielle tries to look at me, and I place a hand on her shoulder, effectively stopping her. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“But …” Her voice wobbles. “How could you have killed your mother?”
My teeth clench, refusing to puke up these truths. I open my mouth, then close it.
Try again.
Fail.
Try again.
Fail.
“You don’t have to say it,” she says softly.
I grunt, trying so hard to make my tongue work. Just say the fucking words. Jaw quivering, I try one more time.
All I can rasp out is, “I was born.”
There. I said it. I exhale harshly, relieved to be free of that temporarily.
My fingers restart their massaging, and another tiny boulder lifts from my shoulders. Kyrielle turns her head again, and I see a tear roll down her cheek. Without thinking, I wipe it away, ignoring the ones falling down mine.
“That’s awful, Trinte.”
“Mmhmm.” I clear my throat. “So yeah, he liked to remind me of that in different ways. One of the ways was not letting me eat or keeping the food locked up. Now, I struggle to throw away food, even if it’s expired.” My hands fall from her silky wet locks. “Time to rinse it out.”
I help her wash out the conditioner. When it’s all gone, I turn off the shower and grab a fresh towel. “I’m going to dry your arms off first, okay?”
She nods and I silently dry her off, unable to look her in the eye. I’m flayed, with each flapping layer of my soul laid bare on icicles. It’s difficult to think about the ever-present shame because her stare is unwavering. I can fucking feel it.
It makes me want to scream.
Carefully wrapping her in the towel, I help her step out of the shower. Opening the bathroom door, I huff out a laugh at the amount of steam that billows out. Her bedroom door is closed, but it’s a safe bet that’s where the clothes are.
I’m reaching for the handle when she says, “Trinte?”
Pausing, I glance back at her. Her beautiful face is drawn tight with fear and worry. Whatever’s behind this door, she doesn’t want me to see. I step back, but she shakes her head emphatically. “I-It’s fine.” She swallows thickly. “I guess we’re crawling into each other’s graves now.”
I snort, giving a wry smile. “Unfortunately, it looks like both of us live in graveyards.”
I turn the knob.
Her room is more bare than a prison cell.
The window has bars over it, with wind chimes on the bottom.
Against one wall is an empty bedframe. Confused, I look around, then spot the mattress crammed into the closet.
All of her clothes are hanging above it.
Five deadbolts line the edge of the closet door.
A single photo with a younger version of Kyrielle and a man hangs outside the closet door.
My heart breaks for both of us. Her trauma is alive and well inside her, as it is for me. It just presents differently, and though she shares herself with people, Kyrielle also keeps herself in a locked coffin of fear every single night.
It’s vital that I don’t have any form of negative reaction. “What would you like to wear?”
Kyrielle’s lower lip trembles as she wraps arms around her torso. “Something comfortable. I don’t care.”
“Got it.” I cross the room in a couple of strides to peer into the closet.
It’s more roomy than it looks, and the clothes are well organized.
Spotting some fleece pants and a soft-looking T-shirt, I pull those off hangers.
Peering around, I find a small set of drawers.
I open them until I find the underwear. Pulling out a pair, I close the drawer and walk back to her.
“Do these work?”
She grimaces. “How am I putting this shirt on?”
“Fuck,” I mutter, eyeing the damn thing. It’s velcroed for fliers, but her wing is still too crooked for it to sit comfortably or accidentally tug on the bruised flesh. “You … might have to go topless for a few days.”
Kyrielle sighs heavily, dropping her head. “Just my luck.”
“Do you have anything that could go over your breasts?” I ask, trying to recall if there was anything in the drawer. She shakes her head. I deflate, more worried for her than anything. “We can just make sure you have a blanket nearby at all times?”
“Yeah,” she says glumly.
I take a step closer. “Hey.” She looks up with a miserable expression. Offering what I hope is a comforting expression, I say, “It’ll be okay. I promise to be a gentleman the entire time.”
Kyrielle smiles weakly, but I can tell she’s still worried. All I can do is prove it with actions. Holding out the underwear, I ask, “Do you want help to put these on?”
She finally snaps, letting out a loud growl of frustration and throws up her good arm.
“This is so fucking annoying already, and it’s been only an hour.
I need help putting on underwear, from a man I fucked in a bathroom nine months ago.
Who helped me commit murder last night. And now, he’s going to help me put on underwear because I broke my fucking wing. ”
We stare at one another. My mouth twitches. Her eyes narrow. Then we burst out into laughter. The tension shatters.
The pair of underwear hangs from my finger. “This is not my first damsel in distress situation, you know.”
Kyrielle grins, all of the tension melting out of her. “Am I the only damsel you have to continue saving?”
I crouch, motioning for her to slide a foot into one side of the underwear. “You’re the only distressed damsel I want to save, Kyrielle.”
It takes enormous effort to ignore the way my body wants to respond to her nakedness. Instead, I help her put them on, then into the pants. I’m concerned she’s going to be cold without a top on, but it’s something I’ll figure out once we have food in her belly.
Once she’s as dressed as possible, I put my hands on my hips and take stock of the situation. I’ll be sleeping on the floor, since there’s no couch. That’s fine — I spent years sleeping on the floor. Doing it for her will be easy enough.
But I need a change of clothes; we need food and other supplies.
Looking at her, I ask, “Can you give me a couple of hours to grab things we need for the next few days?”
“It’s fine,” she says quickly. “Thank you for helping, but I can handle—”
“Shut your pretty mouth.”
She rears back like I’ve slapped her. “What?”
Glaring, I say, “I said shut your pretty mouth. Don’t waste energy trying to convince me to not take care of you when you can’t even brush your hair without help.
You’re going to let me take care of you because you need it.
I need a couple of hours to grab things, and then I’ll come back to cook you dinner.
” When she raises an eyebrow, I add flatly, “With non-expired food.”
This earns a smile and an eyeroll. “Fine. I suppose I’ll survive for a couple of hours.”
Pleased, I say, “Good.” Impulsively, I kiss the top of her head. It’s chaste and quick, leaving the smell of her shampoo on my lips.
“Be right back, Firefly.”