Page 13 of Double Down
"Angel, do you want to undress yourself, or do you want me to do it for you?" I ask, ignoring the voice in my head telling me to fetch one of the others, that I'm not good enough for this.
I'm the one holding her. That's enough.
She doesn't blink.
She was there for me when I couldn't breathe. She climbed the walls I built for protection, even as they became my prison. I won't let her go through the war I see her waging with herself alone. My brothers might love her, even if they haven’t figured that out yet. But I understand her.
I tug gently at the hem of her shirt. "Let's take this off, Angel."
Slowly, I peel her clothes away one piece at a time—shirt, bra, shoes, socks, shorts, underwear. I don't throw them in the hamper. They'll need to be burned with the rest of the evidence from tonight.
I keep my hands steady and my eyes up…I count buttons instead of lingering over curves and flesh. This isn't sexual. She needs to be taken care of, not owned. Not now.
It feels like stripping away the last several hours, looking for the girl who tried to sneak out to face her demons before they found us.
I'm looking for my brave savior—the only woman who has never been afraid of me, the only one able to see past the knives and blank-faced exterior.
Salt clings to her skin from the ocean. Sweat. And God knows what else from the boat. That rinse on the yacht wasn't enough then, and it sure as hell isn't enough now.
I lift her and carry her into the steam-thick shower, careful not to let the spray hit her until I've tested it again. I set her against the tile. Her body leans into the wall but doesn't slide.
I strip, add my clothes to the pile, and step back in with the handheld shower head. I take her hand and run warm water over the back of it, watching her face. No flinch—but her fingers loosen.
That will have to do.
I keep her standing while I drop to my knees letting the water soothe everywhere. Every inch—her perfect face, the line of her throat, down to the soft spaces between her toes. I wash away the sin, and the stress.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to.
When the last of the suds rinse away, I pull her under the overhead rainfall. For long moments, I just hold her under the hot water, letting it warm us both. My head rests on the curve of her shoulder. Her pulse thuds steady under my mouth. Alive.
Broken, but breathing.
Air in. Held. Air out. I match her cadence until our breaths sync, settle.
As long as she's breathing, I can fix this.
I can find a way to keep her.
When her shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing, I take my first full breath. I grab the shampoo I bought her and avert my eyes to the black-and-tan ombré bottle.
The salon girls swore it was the best and Phoenix deserves the best, even if she has only ever gotten scraps up until now.
I squeeze it into my palm, the warm citrusy scent filling the steam, and then work it through her hair. It takes only a moment for her to soften against me. Maybe it's the shampoo. Maybe it's my thumbs drawing slow circles on her scalp. I don't care.
For the first time, she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then another. She leans her weight into me the way I crave.
I chance a look and see her eyes slip shut while her chin tips up.
I keep my fingers moving, soft, slow, patient. For her, I have all the time in the world.
When her body sways, I worry she’s too exhausted to stand. So I tip her under the water, rinse the shampoo, then sit on the bench, pulling her into my lap as I work conditioner through her long, honey waves.
"Storm?" she says. Her voice is tiny and raw, but it's there.
"Yes, Angel?"
"Do you have any idea who killed Sarah? Who left her like that?"
