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I use my free hand to scratch my neck, only to have Decker swirl me around to face him.
“Let me help you.” His eyes are wide, his concern only increasing my panic.
I’m shaking. My arms tremble in his hold.
Tonight was my doing. I’ve caused this. I’m responsible.
“It’s all my fault.” The admission bubbles up my throat without permission.
“No, baby. It’s not.” He leans closer, getting in my face. “That’s the adrenaline talking.”
I try to tug my wrists away, but he holds tight. He won’t let me go, and there’s comfort in that. There’s reassurance he won’t allow my demons to take over. Only there’s fear, too. More hysteria with the restriction.
“Keira, this isn’t your fault.”
His seriousness is foreign. He’s always the life of the party, no matter how much my brother despises his antics. But this… This strong, caring man breaks me, cracking my foundations.
Muscled arms engulf me, leading me away from the window and down another familiar hall. “Is the bathroom this way?”
I don’t answer, just keep dragging my numb feet in the right direction as the dried blood sinks under my skin, making me itch.
He stops before the alcove with the basin, vanity, and mirror. The door to the toilet is behind us, another to the main bathroom by our side. He yanks open drawers and cupboards until he finds a cloth, then runs the material under water and squeezes out the excess.
It won’t help.
It’s not enough.
The stains are marrow deep, now marking my soul.
I step away, opening the door at our side to escape toward the shower. I flick on the light and lunge for the taps.
I don’t wait for the water to warm. I climb inside, needing to cleanse my soul, the cold spray hitting hard. I scrub and scrub, not stopping until the rough patches turn smooth, then disappear completely.
It’s still not enough.
I tear at my dress, yanking, tugging, until the heavy, sodden weight falls to my ankles.
I stand in my underwear, head bowed, the soaked mass of my hair curtaining my face like a shield as I stare blankly at the floor.
I can’t be like this. I have to pull myself together. There’s no alternative, but my body won’t comply. I succumb to the burning in my eyes. I cry, the tears flowing silently, the sobs wracking my chest as I brace a hand against the cold tile and purge every last drop of self-loathing.
I surrender to fragility for long moments. Maybe minutes. Possibly hours.
Nothing breaks through until him… Until Decker’s shoes come into view at the entrance of the shower.
“Keira…”
His voice wraps around me, making everything worse and somewhat better at the same time.
I don’t know how to react. I never do with him.
I suck in a breath and straighten, swiping the hair from my cheeks.
Strong hands reach out before me, shutting off the water. I stare at those fingers, the ta
I summon the strength I need. I create it, building from the inside out. I have no choice. I can’t be fragile around him.
I turn to find him holding a plush white towel, his expression tight. His eyes have lost the taint of concern. They’re different. The comforting depths now portray something I don’t appreciate.
“I’m not weak,” I blurt.
“I know, tiger.”
“Then don’t look at me like that.”
He frowns. “Like what?”
“Like you pity me.” I step out of the shower, my limbs numb as he wraps me in the thick material. Despite my request, I can’t help letting him dry me like a child.
“I can leer at your tits if it will make you feel better.”
Something squeezes inside me. Not my stomach. Not my lungs. It’s bigger. All encompassing. I guess it’s appreciation.
Again, his infusion of humor has endeared me.
“What’s option B?” I repeat his question from earlier, earning a slight tweak to his gorgeous lips.
“While you were…” He waves a hand at the shower, wordlessly referring to my psychotic break. “I did a quick search of the house and couldn’t find any spare clothes.” He wrings my hair, a mass of water droplets hitting the tile at my feet. “You’ll have to wear my shirt.” He wraps the towel around my back, holding the ends out for me to take. “Can you grab this for a minute?”
I clutch the offering in both hands, clinging tight.
He shucks his tailored jacket to the floor, then begins to unbutton his white long-sleeve shirt. I should stop him. I’m sure I could find a robe or a blanket; even a sheet would do. But I keep quiet as he exposes a chiseled chest, muscled arms, and a haunting mass of inked skin.
The art on his arm is a collage of ominous images—a woman in tears, skulls, a chessboard, skeletal trees. I commit the eerie images to memory, none more so than the beautifully written script on his left pec. Delicate text is written above his heart, my gaze skimming over some of the words—gentle, rage, dying, light.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” he drawls, each syllable dripping with cocky menace.
A breath of delirious laughter bursts from my lips.
Through all this insanity, he provides a distraction. This man… He’s crazy. Ridiculously so. And I can’t help the extra hard thump that hammers in my chest as I look at him. Nobody speaks to me the way he does. He’s different, his anomalies always strumming my curiosity.
“I’m sorry.” I clear my throat. “How would you like me to look at you?”
His mouth twitches, the hint of a smirk breaking through. “I’m just kiddin’. You can ogle all you like. In fact, if you’ve got some dollar bills, I can put on a show.”
And just like that, my mental break is forgotten. He doesn’t judge me for losing my shit. Doesn’t even acknowledge it happened.
“Here.” He hands over his shirt and takes the towel, diverting his gaze as I pull the material over my shoulders and button up.
His scent envelops me, the delicious cologne masculine and woodsy. It strengthens me, makes me feel stable again. I tilt my face to the side, craving more, and take a subtle inhale against the collar, dragging him deep into my lungs.
The comfort engulfing me is ridiculous, I know that. He’s not a man I can trust. And still I wrap his shirt tighter, stealing all I can get, wanting the material to cling to me like a second skin.
I close my eyes for a brief second, take another deep inhale, and blink to find him staring at me. Watching. His ravenous gaze freezes me in place.
I no longer see an ounce of his pity. His humor is nowhere in sight. What bears down on me is narrowed intensity.
Ferocity.
Lust.
“Decker—” The flare of his nostrils cuts off my sentence, and I tremble, caught between responsibility and potential stupidity.