Page 70 of The Biting Bargain

"That feels nice," she murmurs, sinking lightly into my touch.

I clench my jaws, continuing to apply the ointment to her back and everywhere else.

It does its job immediately, the abrasions vanish after a few minutes — almost completely — and Polly visibly relaxes. No idea what exactly that witch is mixing up, but the stuff is potent, that's for sure.

"Turn around," I finally say, trying hard not to notice that she's still sitting across from me completely naked as I cover her scratched shoulders and collarbones with the ointment.

"I can do that myself," she says very quietly.

I shake my head without a reply and she lets me go ahead. Gently and silently, I work my way over her body until every scratch, no matter how small, is covered with the ointment and can work its healing magic.

"Better?" I finally ask.

She tilts her head. "I didn't feel bad."

"I owe you an apology," I say before I can stop myself.

She frowns. "Don't."

"Look at you, dove," I growl. "Just look at you."

"I'm probably the one who should apologize," she says, pulling the sheets back around her body and curling her knees protectively against her. "You told me to stay here. I disobeyed. So..."

I reach out and stroke her hair. It's so soft and so silky and so damn vulnerable. I could crush her at any moment. But right now, all I want to do is protect her, and be it from myself.

"Why didn't you stay?" I ask in a raspy voice.

"I needed to see you." She looks down at her feet and then at me, green eyes fixed on me with their full destructive power. "Make sure you were okay."

My face falls. That telltale tender spot inside my chest aches. No, scratch that. Her words are a punch to my throat.

"I'm sorry, dove," I murmur. She shakes her head fiercely.

"But you didn't do anything I didn't want!"

"You wanted so badly to be violated by a monster?" My voice is louder than intended, but Polly doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink.

"You are not a monster," she says. "And no-one was violated."

A low, bitter laugh unfurls from my throat. "You did see me, didn't you?" I can't help it; when she looks at me so defiantly something inside me melts, something hard and unyielding, and in spite of myself I have to smile.

"Okay, but..." Suddenly her hand is on mine. It's warm. And a gentle tingling ripples its way up my arm. And my entire body is suffused with pleasant warmth.

Like the first sunshine in a winter forest.

"... I'm glad you're okay," she says.

I stare at her. No jokes, no wisecracks, no witty remarks she usually uses for stress compensation. There's not even her nervous little grin. Just her round face, her hand on mine, and that warm tingling sensation is growing stronger.

She's completely serious. And I feel like melting under a laser as more fresh guilt washes over me.

I push to my feet, and all she can do is let out a protesting squeak — a sound I like way too much — as I scoop her up in my arms.

"What are you doing?" she gasps, but I don't answer and carry her into my bathroom.

I turn on the shower, make sure the water is not too hot and not too cold, and then we both stand under the spray. The desire for her is overshadowed by the need to wash her clean of all the sins I have defiled her with. And she lets it happen as I gently soap every part of her, abandons herself to my caring hands, and with a gentleness I don't know from myself, I wash and rinse her. After the water is turned off again, I take one of the soft, fluffy towels and kneel in front of her.

"Vincent?" she asks, half shocked.

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