Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
I kneel beside her, gently brushing strands of wet hair from her face. Blood has dried on her inner thighs, mixed with other fluids I don’t want to think about. Her skin bears the marks of our battle for possession—finger-shaped bruises, bite marks, and abrasions from the rough concrete.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, though she can’t hear me.
As gently as possible, I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. I cradle her against my chest, and this strange rage consumes me at the lightness of her body. Her head falls naturally against my shoulder, breath warm against my neck. So light, so fragile in my arms. How could either of us have treated her with such brutality?
The question brings unwelcome self-reflection that I’m not ready to examine.
Instead, I focus on the immediate need—caring for her, cleaning her, ensuring she suffers no lasting physical damage from our violent claims.
The emotional trauma is beyond my capacity to address. Perhaps beyond anyone’s. Physically I can stitch her up, stop any bleeding, and make sure she is okay.
I carry her toward the stairs, movements careful to avoid jostling her. With each step, I feel something shifting inside me—priorities realigning, focus changing. Revenge suddenly seems less important than her well-being. A dangerous thought I can’t afford to entertain.
The master bathroom connects directly to my bedroom, designed with the same clinical efficiency as everything else in my space. I nudge the door open with my shoulder, careful not to bump Lilian’s head against the frame.
Steam fills the room as I turn on the shower with one hand, still cradling her against my chest. The water heats quickly, mist rising to fog the mirrors. I step under the spray with her still in my arms, ignoring the sting as hot water hits my own cuts and abrasions.
Her skin, pale and marked with evidence of our struggle, glistens as water cascades over us both. I lower her carefully until she’s sitting on the built-in bench, her head lolling against the tile wall. She looks smaller somehow, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her.
I retrieve shower gel—something expensive with hints of cedar I barely notice most days. The scent seems important now, a counterpoint to the metallic tang of blood and sex still clinging to her skin.
Starting with her shoulders, I work the lather across her body gently.
My hands, instruments of violence for so long, now move with careful precision, washing away the evidence of what we did to her.
Blood and other fluids swirl down the drain as I clean between her thighs, my touch clinical rather than sexual despite our nakedness. My own the tenderness surprises me, this unfamiliar urge to care rather than possess foreign.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure for what, exactly.
For using her against Aries? For the rough claiming? Or for something deeper—dragging her into this war between brothers that was never hers to fight?
Her eyelids flutter as consciousness begins returning, the drugs finally wearing off. I continue my ministrations, working shampoo through her hair, fingers massaging her scalp.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, leaning into my touch unconsciously.
I rinse the suds away, watching them disappear down the drain like the evidence of our violence. Clean. Reset. As if it never happened.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they land on my face.
“Aries?” she whispers, confusion evident in her voice.
The single word slices through me, deeper than any knife could reach. Of course she would think I’m him. Of course her first thought would be for my despicable brother.
“No,” I say, voice rougher than intended. “It’s Arson.”
Disappointment flickers across her features before she can mask it.
Another wound, this one to something I didn’t know could hurt. Something dangerous and fragile taking root where only vengeance used to live.
“Where is he?” she asks, her voice small and uncertain.
“Back where he belongs,” I answer, unable to keep the edge from my tone. “Where he can’t hurt you.”
Her hands reach for me, hesitant at first, then more certain as they slide up my chest. Confusion clouds her expression, yet her body seems to know what it wants—touch, connection, comfort.
“The chemicals,” I explain, catching her wrists gently. “They’re used to calm a person, and they lower your inhibitions. You’re still feeling the effects.”
“No,” she says, her voice stronger than I expected. “It’s not just that.”
She pulls her hands free, surprising me with her determination as she slides them up to cup my face. Water streams between us, warm and cleansing, as she studies my features.
“You came back for me,” she whispers. “You didn’t leave me there.”
The simple observation shouldn’t affect me, but it does. Another crack in the armor I’ve built over years of institutional survival.
Her lips find mine, tentative at first, then more insistent.
I need to stop this. It’s wrong. She’s vulnerable, still influenced by the security system’s chemicals. Every rational thought escapes when her body presses against mine, wet skin sliding against wet skin. My resistance crumbles, and I let go, deepening the kiss.