Page 171 of The Thief
"For keeping your promise. For coming home."
I kiss her then, soft and desperate, tasting relief and love and the future we can finally have without looking over our shoulders.
"Come on," she says, taking my hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."
The bathroom fills with steam as she runs the shower, testing the temperature with careful fingers. I watch her move around the small space, setting out towels, checking that we have everything we need.
She's nervous. I can see it in the way she's avoiding eye contact, in the quick, efficient movements that are more about having something to do with her hands than actual necessity.
"You don't have to—" I start.
"I want to." She turns to face me, chin lifted in that stubborn way that always makes my chest tight. "Let me take care of you."
"It's a lot of blood."
"I've seen blood before."
"Not like this."
"Freddie." She steps closer and places her palm flat against my chest. "I know what you did tonight. I know what you had to do. And I'm not running."
"You should be."
"Well, I'm not." Her fingers start working the buttons of my shirt. "So shut up and let me help you."
The shirt hits the floor in a wet, crimson heap. When we're both naked, she takes my hand and leads me under the spray.
The water runs red at first, swirling around the drain like something out of a nightmare. But her hands are gentle as they move over my skin, washing away the evidence of violence, of justice served.
"Was it quick?" she asks quietly.
"No."
"Good."
The simple word, the satisfaction in her voice, it reminds me why I fell for this woman. She's not squeamish about the reality of our world. She doesn't pretend that monsters deserve mercy.
Her fingers work shampoo through my hair, nails scratching lightly against my scalp. The sensation is so normal, so domestic, that it's almost jarring after the night I've had.
"Did he say anything?" she asks. "At the end?"
"He begged."
"For his life?"
"For forgiveness. For mercy. For all the things he never gave his victims."
"And you?"
"I gave him exactly what he gave Murphy. What he planned to give you."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing. The water's running clear now, the worst of the blood washed away.
"Do you regret it?" she asks.
"No. Do you?"
"No." Her voice is firm, certain. "He made his choices. You made yours."
