Page 134 of Velvet Corruption
But maybe that was okay.
Because with Kieran there, maybe I didn’t have to.
And it was fucked up…sure. But maybe part of me liked that.
Chapter Thirty: Kieran
She listened.
That alone said something. Not about trust, exactly—just the kind of resignation that settles in when you've got nothing left to burn.
I followed her upstairs. Into her bedroom. Sat on the edge of the bed like I belonged there, like I hadn’t just dragged her whole life into the dark and handed her the knife.
Water ran in the en suite. I stayed where I was, shoulders tight, my hands braced on my knees. Steam crept out under the door in soft, curling tendrils. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
Then I heard it. A sound not meant for me—low, broken, gut-deep. Like she was trying to choke it down before it escaped her throat.
My hand found the door handle without hesitation.
She hadn’t locked it.
Of course she hadn’t.
I pushed it open, slow, quiet, and slipped inside. The heat hit first. Then the scent—coconut, iron, her skin.
She stood beneath the spray, head bowed, arms wrapped tight around her ribs like she was trying to hold herself together from the outside in. Her shoulders trembled. Her knees wobbled. Her breath came in shudders, soft and wet and wrecked.
She didn’t hear me. Not at first. I didn’t strip down. Didn’t say her name. I just stepped into the shower, clothes and all, letting the water soak through cotton and denim, letting it scald down my spine. She stiffened when she felt me behind her—but she didn’t turn around.
She didn’t tell me to leave.
I could barely see her skin through the steam and the blood and the grief. Her body was all soft edges, bruised and too warm, and I kept my hands to myself only because I didn’t trust what would happen if I touched her.
“Hey,” I murmured. “Hey. You’re okay.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not. What kind of person—what kind of mother lets this happen?”
“You didn’t let anything happen,” I said, voice low, steady. “Someone came into your home to kill you. You survived. That’s what Rosie needs. Not a saint. Not a martyr. Her mother.”
She turned just enough for me to see her profile, the curve of her throat, the heat flush on her cheeks.
“It doesn’t feel like the right thing,” she whispered.
I didn’t lie. I didn’t tell her it would. I just reached for the shampoo.
The cap clicked. The scent bloomed—too gentle for a night like this, too clean—and I gathered her hair in my hands, soaked through and clinging to her skin. I tilted her head back, slow, careful, and when I dragged my fingers through her scalp, she let out a sound so small I almost missed it.
But I didn’t miss it. I felt it—tight in my chest, low in my gut.
She let me wash her. Let me touch her. Let me do this one thing.
And fuck, if that didn’t feel like everything.
The water kept falling, red-tinted and heavy. I worked the shampoo through her hair, rinsing it out slow. Her arms dropped. Her spine curved toward me. She let me hold her there, still and quiet and undone.
This was surrender. Not the body. The trust.
I should’ve left her to it. Let her fall apart on her own.
