Chapter 29
Lucien
The stench of blood clings to my skin like a fucking disease. I can still feel Richards’ final breath against my face, the way his eyes went vacant as I watched the life drain out of him. Good fucking riddance.
I kick my front door open, Seraphina cradled against my chest. She hasn’t stopped shaking since I put her in my car, her body vibrating with aftershocks of terror that make my chest ache.
Her face is pressed against my neck, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts that tell me she’s still riding the edge of panic.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her hair, carrying her through the darkened house toward my bedroom. “You’re safe now.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, clinging to me like I’m the only solid thing in her world. Maybe right now I am.
“I need to get clean,” she whispers, her voice so small it barely reaches my ears. “I can feel him. I can smell him on me.”
The words make something primal and violent twist in my gut. I’d kill that fucker all over again if I could, more slowly this time. Make him suffer for every second he made her afraid.
I carry her straight to my bathroom, nudging the door open with my foot. The massive space gleams, the oversized soaking tub dominating one corner. I head toward it automatically, already thinking about warm water and bath salts to soothe her bruised skin.
“No,” she says suddenly, her fingers tightening on my shoulder. “Not a bath. I just want a shower.”
I pause, looking down at her face. Her eyes are clear now, focused on mine with surprising intensity given what she’s just been through. “Okay, whatever you want, Little Sinner.”
I set her down carefully, making sure her legs are steady beneath her before I let go. She sways slightly but remains upright, her hands immediately moving to the torn jersey she’s still wearing. Her fingers tremble too much to manage the fabric.
“Let me,” I say softly, reaching for the hem. She nods, lifting her arms so I can pull the ruined fabric over her head. I toss it in the trash. I never want to see it again, let alone have her wear it.
I take care of her bra next, unclasping it with practiced ease and sliding it down her arms. Her skin prickles with goosebumps in the cool air, her nipples hardening.
Any other time, the sight would have my cock instantly hard.
Now, all I feel is an overwhelming need to protect her, to wash away every trace of that fucker’s hands.
My fingers hook into the waistband of her jeans, and I drop to my knees in front of her.
I look up, waiting for her nod before I unbutton them and slide the denim down her legs.
She braces her hands on my shoulders as she steps out of them, leaving her in nothing but a tiny black thong.
Before dragging those down also leaving her bare, before I stand back up.
I strip out of my own clothes quickly, dropping them in a pile. My eyes never leave her face, watching for any sign of discomfort or fear. But all I see is exhaustion and a desperate need to be clean.
Reaching into the shower, I twist the knob, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to fill the bathroom. Without a word, I take her hand and guide her into the massive glass enclosure. The hot water hits her skin, and she flinches slightly before stepping fully under the spray.
“Too hot?” I ask, my hand hovering over the temperature control.
She shakes her head. “No. It’s perfect.” Her voice is still small, but steadier now.
I step in behind her, closing the glass door.
Water cascades over both of us, running in rivulets down her body.
She stands motionless under the spray, eyes closed, face tilted upward as if the water might wash away more than just physical traces.
I grab my body wash instead of hers because I need her to smell like me right now.
Pouring a generous amount into the net, she insists on hanging in here because it’s better than anything else.
I lather it between my hands and then move it over her skin in firm, gentle circles.
She doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away, just stands there letting me take care of her.
My hands slide down her arms, carefully avoiding the rope burns on her wrists. I’ll deal with those afterwards; put some ointment on them to help them heal. For now, I focus on washing her, on replacing that fucker’s touch with mine.
I move to her back, fingers tracing the delicate line of her spine before spreading across her shoulder blades. Her skin is so fucking soft under my rough hands. I want to be gentle with her, but part of me wants to grip her tight, to leave my own marks over any trace Richards might have left.
I wash her front, hands sliding over her collarbones, down between her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach.
Her eyes remain closed, her breathing steadier now.
I drop to my knees in front of her, running soapy hands down her legs, over her calves, between her toes.
I’m thorough, clinical almost, determined to clean every inch of her.
When I stand back up, her eyes finally open, meeting mine. The water has plastered her hair to her head, the elaborate braids she had earlier now a tangled, half-undone mess.
“Your hair,” I say, reaching up to touch one of the twisted strands. “Can I...would it be okay if I washed it for you?”
The question feels strange on my tongue.
I’m not used to asking permission for things.
I’m used to taking, commanding, demanding.
But right now, with her looking so fucking fragile, I need her to know she has control over what I do and I’m worried touching her hair without asking might push her over the edge.
She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.
“I need to hear you say it,” I tell her, my voice gentle but firm. “I need your words, Seraphina.”
She swallows, her throat working visibly before she speaks. “Please,” she whispers, the word barely audible over the shower spray. “Please wash my hair.”
Something in my chest tightens at her request. I’ve never heard her sound so vulnerable, so stripped of her usual fire. It makes me want to burn the whole fucking world down for putting that tremor in her voice.
“Turn around,” I murmur, reaching for her favorite shampoo that somehow migrated to my shower weeks ago.
I start working on the braids, my fingers surprisingly steady as I unwind the intricate patterns.
Her hair is tangled, snarled in places where she struggled against Richards.
The thought makes my jaw clench, but I force myself to focus on being gentle.
Each strand I free feels like reclaiming a piece of her.
“I’ve never done this before,” I admit, carefully working through a particularly stubborn knot.
“Done what?” Her voice is stronger now, steadier.
“Washed someone else’s hair.” The realization strikes me as strange. I’ve had my hands all over countless women’s bodies, been inside them in every way imaginable, but this—this feels more intimate somehow.
When the last braid comes undone, her hair falls in crimped waves down her back. I gather it in my hands, marveling at the silky weight of it. Methodically, I work the shampoo through, starting at her scalp and massaging, hoping I’m fucking doing this right.
She lets out a soft sigh, her shoulders dropping as some of the tension leaves her body. The sound goes straight through me, settling somewhere deep in my chest.
“Is this okay?” I ask, my fingers working their way down to the nape of her neck.
“Yes,” she breathes, leaning back slightly into my touch. “It feels good.”
I take my time, making sure every strand is coated before guiding her under the spray to rinse.
The suds run down her back in rivulets, disappearing down the drain.
I follow with conditioner, working it through with careful attention, combing it with my fingers until her hair feels like silk between them.
“Almost done,” I murmur, rinsing again until the water runs clear.
When I finish, she turns to face me, water dripping from her lashes like tears. There’s something raw and unguarded in her expression that makes my chest tighten painfully.
“Thank you,” she says simply.
I don’t know what to do with the feelings crashing through me. I’m not built for this—for tenderness, for caring about someone else’s pain. The only person I’ve ever truly given a shit about is my mother, and that’s different.
I turn off the water and reach for one of the oversized towels hanging nearby. She stands there, water dripping from her body onto the tile, looking lost and small. I wrap the towel around her carefully, tucking it securely above her breasts.
“What now?” I ask, watching her face for any clue about what she needs.
She blinks slowly, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. “I just want to sleep,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she adds, “But I need to comb my hair first.”
“How about I do it?” I offer, surprising myself with the suggestion.
She doesn’t answer, just walks past me into the bedroom. For a second, I think she’s rejecting my help, but then she sits down at the vanity against the far wall. The message is clear enough.
I grab another towel and wrap it around my waist, following her. Her hair brush sits on the vanity—evidence of how thoroughly she’s infiltrated my space over these past weeks. I pick it up, hesitating for a moment before I start at the ends of her hair like I’ve seen her do.
I work slowly through the tangles. Her hair is fucking everywhere, still damp and smelling like her expensive shampoo. It feels strange to be doing something so mundane after the violence of the night, my hands gentle now when just hours ago they were covered in blood.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask when she winces as I hit a knot.
“No,” she says, but I slow down anyway, working through the tangle with careful fingers. “I just...today was...”
“I know,” I say, because what the fuck else can I say? Sorry a deranged priest kidnaped you? Sorry I wasn’t there sooner?
When her hair is smooth and untangled, I set the brush down. “Done.”
She stands up, the towel still wrapped around her. “Thank you,” she says, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
I nod, suddenly feeling awkward as shit. I walk to my dresser and grab a clean t-shirt. Faded black and soft from countless washes. “Here,” I say, holding it out to her. “For sleeping.”
She takes it without argument, letting her towel drop as she pulls the shirt over her head. It swallows her, hanging to mid-thigh. The sight of her in my clothes always does something primitive to my insides, but I push it down.
I pull on a pair of boxer briefs, hyper aware of her eyes on me. When I turn back, she’s already climbing into my bed, sliding under the covers on what has somehow become “her side”.
Sliding into the other side, I turn off all the lights and just lay there on my back. I don’t want to move toward her but I don’t want to move away from her either so I’ll just lay like a fucking corpse.
Ten minutes go by, and when I’m finally going to crack and move to my side, she shuffles across the sheets and instinctively I lift my arm and she slides right in. Molding her body to my side, head on my chest and her calf pressing down against my shin and I think I will finally be able to sleep.