Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59739 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59739 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
His voice is softer now, almost apologetic. “You need anything? Food, more water, just say the word.”
I swallow, wincing at the rawness in my throat. My stomach twists, hollow and desperate, but I have a better answer. “Right now, I would fucking kill for a hot shower.”
Ace tips his head back and laughs, an honest, wild sound. He looks at me like I’m the only real thing in the world. “I think I can help with that.”
Then, just like that, he’s gone.
But I am filled with a renewed hope.
5
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I gasp when I see Ace walk into the shack with a large bucket.
“I can’t give you a hot shower, but I can give you a hot sponge bath.”
My mouth opens, then closes, and I stare at him, not entirely sure what my next move is actually going to be.
“I’m not sayin’ I have to do it,” he goes on, “I just wanted to bring you some freshly boiled water, a clean cloth, and Aggie even managed to gather some soap so you can make bubbles.”
My heart.
It feels like it might explode.
My eyes burn, a mix of unshed tears and some serious dehydration.
This is the kindest gesture.
“Don’t go gettin’ glassy-eyed on me, sweetpea,” Ace murmurs. “You haven’t showered in days.”
A bubble of laughter leaves my throat, and I swipe a lone tear that rolls down my cheek. “It’s making sense now.”
He grins. “I have banned everyone from coming in here for at least an hour so you have time. I’ll be right outside.”
He leaves before I can say anything more, and I watch him go with tears in my eyes.
Our story might have started rocky, but slowly, I feel like it is all crumbling down to reveal an utterly beautiful mountain.
It takes me a minute to gather myself, and slowly, I sit up and shuffle out of bed. My body aches, and I feel exhausted even though I have done nothing but sleep. Staring down at the bucket of water, my body fills with a desperation to just climb in it and soak. I try to stand, but my head spins and I feel weak.
Shit.
I try again, but my legs tremble and my head spins.
Dammit.
“Ah,” I call out. “I... shit.”
Ace appears, his back turned to me as if he hasn’t devoured my entire body before. “You good?”
“You can look, but I think... I think I need help.”
He turns slowly, and I have no doubt I am a pitiful sight on the end of the bed, looking weak, hungry and tired. My hair—gosh, I don’t even want to think about how ratty it must be. I wobble, and nearly fall back, but he is there, seconds later, cradling my elbow and holding me steady. The effort attempting to wash myself leaves me dizzy, sweat prickling my hairline.
He carefully positions me, so I am stable and cross-legged at the end of the bed, then he takes the bucket and kneels down in front of me. He wrings out the steaming cloth and tests it on the inside of his wrist. “You sure?”
I nod, and his eyes flick up, the barest hint of a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. He starts at my arms, the cloth barely more than a whisper, smoothing over my skin. The water is hot and fucking perfect, and I close my eyes as sensation blooms beneath it. The warmth seeps in, deeper than skin, almost inside my bones.
“Can I take your shirt off?”
I meet his gaze, and nod again.
He peels my shirt over my head, gentle, and I am struck by the way his hands move—slow and careful not to jar my sore body. I end up in just a ratty sports bra, the kind that never fully dries in this humidity, and I shiver a little. My underwear is just as ratty, but thankfully, Tati is good enough to have ensured it was always clean.
Bless everything about her.
He pauses, running his fingers over some old bruises on my shoulder.
He grunts at that, then leans in, and I hold my breath at the closeness—but he just gently presses the warm cloth to the back of my neck. “Thank you,” he rumbles, voice so low and broken that my chest contracts. “For not dying.”
I let my head drop forward, chin to chest. He washes my back, every vertebra a separate kindness. I feel the knot there, where my own anxiety has lived for years, and I swear it comes loose under his hand. He lifts my arm so he can clean beneath it. The angle makes my breath catch in my throat, but I let him. I let him do all of it.
When he finishes my arms, he works down, washing my legs piece by piece. His hands are big and rough, but he never loses patience, never scrubs too hard. He spends an eternity on my feet, which feels like it should be embarrassing, but it’s not. It’s so tender I want to cry. He washes between every toe, then cups my heel and thumb-sponges the arch in slow, relaxing circles. Then, without a word, he sets the bucket aside and dries my feet with a strip of clean cloth.