Page 9 of A Guardian for Christmas

I have to calm myself before I do real crimes against the entire staff at Bryant Estate for letting her wither away like this.

I can’t let her see me angry.

I think I scared her once before, that day we met. Those were the eyes of someone in trouble. Something was very wrong.

Now that I’ve found Esme, I make sure she is aware of my presence. Maybe it’s a little too forward, but I touch her hair, which feels like it hasn’t been washed in many, many days.

If my time as an Army Ranger kicked in while I watched her house, my nursing degree now takes hold.

It’s been a long, long time, but I don’t think any nurse worth their salt forgets how to act in moments like this.

The first thing we’re going to do is take a shower, and Esme is not about to fight me on it.

Chapter Five

Esme

Sagan moves us into the en suite bathroom and gently sets me down on the pink tufted stool while he turns on the water.

Presumably, he’s warming it up for me, but all I can think about is that I’m embarrassed about the pinkness of it all. I’ve meant to redecorate this room, which still contains all the trappings of a spoiled little princess, with pink and white furniture.

I quickly forget the embarrassment when I realize he’s talking to me.

“What are you on?”

It takes me a moment to register that.

“On?”

I blink up at him. I’m not sure what he means.

Steam begins to fill the room.

Something new settles in my chest. The dark clouds are still here, but I feel less like hating myself because of them.

Sagan’s voice is gentle as he takes my hand and helps me to my feet again. “Don’t worry about that right now. We’ll sort it out later.”

I say nothing, and he turns me around to face the wall.

“Arms up.”

I don’t even question it. This is bananas. Why am I not questioning it?

I raise my arms, and Sagan peels my T-shirt off. Oh god. I can smell myself.

I. Am. Ripe.

Never mind the pink princess bathroom. This is a thousand times more embarrassing.

I knew I hadn’t showered in days, but that was only my business until about five minutes ago. If I’m disgusting, he doesn’t comment on it.

Sagan’s hands reach around my middle, and his thumbs dip inside the elastic waistband of my leggings. I should be humiliated by the way my clothes and body smell like 10-day-old laundry.

But there is something clinical about this. He’s done this before.

I hold my breath as he shoves down my leggings and underwear in one quick move, then says, “Reach back and hold onto me.”

I do as he says. I have no will to do anything else.

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