Page 81 of Savage Union
"Perhaps." He steps closer, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. "But the responsibility remains."
He reaches for the belt of my robe, his movements slow and deliberate, giving me plenty of time to stop him. I don't. The robe falls open, and he eases it from my shoulders with a gentleness that nearly undoes me.
"Get in before the water cools," he instructs, offering his hand to steady me as I step into the tub.
The hot water envelops me, soothing muscles I didn't realize were tense. I sink down with a sigh of pleasure, letting my head rest against the edge of the tub.
To my surprise, Vito doesn't leave. Instead, he rolls up his sleeves and kneels beside the tub, reaching for a washcloth and soap.
"What are you doing?" I ask again, though the answer is obvious.
"Taking care of you," he repeats, his voice low and intimate in the steamy bathroom.
He soaps the washcloth, then begins washing me with slow, gentle strokes. There's nothing sexual about it, despite my nakedness. It's an act of caregiving, of tenderness I never expected from him. He works methodically, starting with my shoulders, moving down my arms, lifting each one to wash underneath, before continuing down my back.
I should feel vulnerable, exposed. Instead, I find myself relaxing into his ministrations, tension melting away with each careful stroke of the cloth.
"You're good at this," I murmur, eyes half-closed in contentment.
"I'm good at many things," he responds, amusement coloring his tone.
"Modest, too."
He actually chuckles at that, the sound echoing slightly in the tiled bathroom. "Modesty is overrated. False humility serves no purpose."
"Of course you'd say that." But there's no bite in my words, just lazy banter that feels strangely comfortable.
He continues washing me, moving to my legs, carefully skipping the areas still sensitive from our earlier activities. When he's finished, he sets the washcloth aside and lathers his hands with shampoo.
"Lean forward," he instructs.
I comply, allowing him to wash my hair with the same methodical care he showed my body. His fingers massage my scalp, working the shampoo into a lather before guiding me to lean back to rinse.
"Close your eyes," he says, using a cup to pour clean water over my hair.
The simple domesticity of the act brings a lump to my throat. When was the last time someone took care of me like this? My mother, perhaps, when I was a child? But even that was different—a parent caring for a child, not this intimate attention between equals.
Because that's how it feels, strangely enough. Not like a master tending to property, but like a partner caring for their lover after a significant moment.
"This isn't what I expected," I admit, eyes still closed as he works conditioner through my hair.
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. Not... gentleness."
His hands pause briefly in my hair. "You thought I would be cruel? Even after..."
After he discovered my virginity. After the moment shifted from angry passion to something more careful, more tender. After he looked into my eyes and asked if I was alright, waitedfor me to adjust, guided me through my first experience with patience I never expected from him.
"I don't know what to think anymore," I confess. "About any of this. About you."
He resumes rinsing my hair, his silence thoughtful rather than dismissive. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost confessional.
"I'm not the monster you've painted in your mind, Caterina. Nor am I the saint some in my organization believe me to be." His hands move back to my shoulders, gently kneading the tension there. "The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between."
I open my eyes, turning to look at him. His expression is open, unguarded in a way I've never seen before. "Then who are you, really?"
"A man doing what's necessary to protect what's his." The possessiveness in his tone should bother me, but somehow it doesn't. "A man who finds himself increasingly... invested in a woman who challenges everything he thought he knew."
