Page 31 of Promised Vows

“I need to get up the stairs. Could you help me do that?”

“Yeah,” I replied and waited for him to make the first move to get up. The last thing I wanted to do was cause more damage.

With more grunts and groans than I could count, we made it up the stairs and into the bathroom. I’d avoided this room. It didn’t feel right being in it without him.

“Shower. I think I’ll take a shower. I wouldn’t be able to get out of the tub.” He rested his back against the wall next to it.

“Okay. Let me get the water heating up.”

The bathroom was spacious with a separate shower and the largest tub I’d ever seen. It was the centerpiece of the entire room. Large enough for a man Ari’s size to sit comfortably. A flash of a scene played in my mind. Me sitting behind him, arms wrapped around his chest, kissing his neck. That thought lit a fire in my core. I shook the image away. My timing was awful.

Inside the shower, a bench went from wall to wall and was deep enough that there was no fear of falling off. Glass mosaic tile in a shimmery green and blue lined the walls accented with black subway tile. An inset shelf held bottles of shampoo, shaving cream, and body wash.

He’d undone two buttons on his shirt before I could return and help him. With every button, more bruising was revealed. I swiped a tear that tried to roll down my cheek.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’ve been worse. Not much, but close.”

His face contorted as I helped him take his shirt off. Even bruised and battered, he was fuel for my engine. “Leave your boxers on, and you can sit on the bench while I get you cleaned up.”

No argument. Not so much as a joke cracked.

I went to one knee and began slipping off his shoes and socks. When I was done with them, I helped him with his pants. Now nearly stripped, he shuffled into the shower and stood under the wide, round showerhead, letting the water rain over his body with his arms loose by his sides and his head back.

Heaven help me if I didn't breathe a little harder. He was solid tanned muscle in tight black boxers—a buffet for the eyes. If he weren't so broken and battered, it'd be an excellent advertisement for those Ron Dorffs he wore.

I stood there, frozen for a moment, caught between admiration and concern. The water cascaded over his battered form, washing away dirt and revealing more bruises. Each newly uncovered mark made my heart clench a little tighter. He'd remained under the water a good five minutes before I shook myself out of my daze and helped him sit down on the bench.

As I began bathing him, I was struck by the intimacy of the moment. The sight of him so vulnerable, relying on me entirely, was a stark contrast to his usual commanding presence. It stirred something deep within me, a protective instinct I hadn't known I possessed. My hands trembled slightly as I pushed them through his hair, soaping it up and scrubbing his scalp.

When a low, guttural moan escaped him, it was music to my ears. The sound sent a shiver down my spine, and I found myself desperately wanting to make him feel better, to erase every bruise and cut marring his skin. The depth of my concern surprised me, but I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

After washing what I was comfortable with, I left him to take care of the rest. My clothes were soaked, but I wanted to make sure he had something to change into when he got out of the shower, so I found him some bottoms and set them on the bed.

On the way to my room, I stopped by the cracked bathroom door. “I’m going to put on dry clothes, and then I’ll be back, okay?”

“Okay,” was his breathy response.

I didn’t take my time. I raced to my room, stripped, and slapped on the first pair of pajamas I could find. I didn’t care if I was welcome in his bed or not. I wasn’t leaving. He needed me.

He needed me and I needed to be needed.

Stopping at the door to his bedroom, I waited until I heard the water shut off. Several soft grunts later, he said, “I’m dressed.”

I stepped inside and nearly broke down right where I stood. Fresh out of the shower, he smelled great and looked worse. Old scars littered his body. A potentially life-threatening wound ran from side to side, low on his stomach, as if someone had tried to gut him. The new bruises were more defined, like continents. He had cuts galore, and I wondered whether a couple needed to be stitched.

My feet moved before my brain even engaged, and I was next to him, sitting on the edge of the bed where he was stretched out. I couldn't stop myself from brushing my fingers over his skin. "I hate this."

"I'm sorry."

I braced my hand on the bed as I leaned over him. "No, I'm sorry. I can't take this from you. I want to wiggle my nose and make you all better."

The thought of leaving him alone in this condition was unbearable. I realized with a start how much I'd come to care about his well-being. My anger from earlier seemed petty in the face of his pain. Whatever complications lay between us, I knew one thing for certain—I needed to be here for him.

"Would you lie down with me?"

He didn't have to ask twice this time. I was next to him before he took his next inhale.

“I didn’t say please.”

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