Page 93 of Savage Hearts
He cradles my head in his hand and asks if I want a towel to support my neck.
“Yes, please.” I’ve never spoken two more difficult words. My self-consciousness is searing.
He places a rolled-up hand towel under my neck. Then he dips the pitcher into the bathwater and tips it over my head, massaging my scalp as the warm water runs through my hair.
It feels so good, I almost groan aloud in pleasure. But that’s nothing compared to the bliss I experience when he works shampoo through my hair with both his hands.
His fingers are strong and gentle. He takes his time, making circles with his thumbs at my temples, stroking under the back of my head and neck, lightly squeezing the muscles at the base of my skull as he lathers my hair.
I spend a brief moment worried I might be drooling, but quickly surrender to the loveliness of it, the overwhelming luxury of the sensation. After less than a full minute, I feel drunk. Exhaling, Idrop my arms from my chest and let my hands float by my hips in the water.
Mal starts to talk to me.
The pace unhurried and the tone low, he speaks in Russian. It sounds like he’s telling a story or explaining something important. I know it’s on purpose, that he’s deliberately not speaking English so I won’t understand, but somehow it doesn’t bother me.
He continues to speak as he rinses my hair. The water splashing into the metal tub sounds like rain on a rooftop. He speaks as he dips a bar of soap and a washcloth into the water. Speaks as he gently washes my arms, armpits, chest, and neck.
By the time he’s washing my feet, kneading my soles with those strong fingers, I’m in a stupor. My head lolls sideways. My eyes are closed. My breaths are slow and deep.
And still, he’s talking.
I don’t ask what he’s saying. I don’t want to break the spell.
He has to prop me up to wash my back. I sag against his arm, my chin hanging over his bent elbow. I feel boneless. Gelatinous. Like he could bend me into a pretzel, and it wouldn’t hurt.
When he’s finished washing and rinsing my body, he runs the washcloth over my face and behind my ears.
“Open your eyes, little bird,” he murmurs in English.
My lids drift open. His face is inches away. His expression is tortured.
My voice faint because it’s coming from outer space, I say, “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t explain. “I’m going to lift you out of the water. Do you think you can stand up?”
I consider it, then nod. “Not for long, though.”
He lifts me from the tub and sets me on my feet on the bath mat, keeping a steadying hand on my hip as he reaches for a towel. Working fast, he dries me off with gentle, clinical efficiency, then wraps the towel around my body and picks me up again.
I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes as he brings me back to bed.
When he’s got me arranged comfortably on the mattress, he opens the towel enough to change the dressing on my wound, leaving my breasts and panties covered.
I watch him work, wondering why he’s doing any of this. “Mal?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
That stops him cold. He glances up at me, his eyes dark, his brows drawn together. Storm clouds gather over his head.
“Don’t thank me.”
“Why not?”
“You were shot because of me.”
“I’m alive because of you.”
