CHAPTER 33: _ BATHING HER

Darien hesitates for an eternity before even touching her. Then, gingerly, he lifts her injured arm, wincing when she whimpers softly in pain. "Sorry," he breathes. "Just... hold on."

His fingers are shaking when he unbuttons what’s left of her blouse. He does it way too slowly. One button at a time, like he’s trying to disarm a bomb.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

He looks and immediately regrets the moment he decides to help her. There’s a scratch on her collarbone, and for some reason, that small detail nearly brings him to his knees. He shrugs the ruined shirt off her shoulders and catches himself staring at the swell of her chest rising and falling, her skin dusted in faint bruises that are nearly finished healing.

"Freaking hell, I’m going to die," he hisses under his breath.

He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out. Repeat. Except he can still smell her. Her scent is faint but potent. His wolf claws at his chest, howling in approval.

"Down, boy," he mutters. "This is not that kind of bath."

The skirt is easier to remove, mostly because he doesn’t let himself think. He peels it off her legs, eyes fixed on a crack in the wall across the room, ignoring the way her skin feels under his fingertips. But when something’s too soft, too warm, and too real, it gets hard to ignore.

Her undergarments remain.

And here, he draws the line. He pulls the towel over her body like before lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the bath. She’s featherlight, but his arms feel like lead. As he lowers her into the water, her lashes flutter.

He freezes. She doesn’t wake up, which is a great relief. De just sighs and sinks slightly into the tub, her body relaxing instantly into the warmth. Darien exhales a curse and kneels beside the tub.

Now comes the real torture.

With painstaking care, he soaks a sponge and begins cleaning her skin. He starts with her shoulders, keeping his eyes strictly above collarbone level, and works his way down her arms, taking care around her wounds.

He tries not to notice the droplets sliding down her neck. He fails as one could suppose.

"How about you stop trying to not to look and bask in the glory of what has been put before you." Kairos chirps in a sing-song tone.

Darien grips at the air in frustration. "What part of "shut up" do you not understand, Kairos?"

Heidi shifts slightly at the sound perhaps, and the towel slips a little. Darien lunges to readjust it like it’s a bomb about to detonate. Should that towel fall off of her, then he’s done for.

"This is the worst day of my life," he hisses.

His hands brush over her side. He flinches like she’s electrocuted him.

"I am a man of principle," he reminds himself, scrubbing the same spot on her forearm for the third time. "I have morals. I am not going to ogle my unconscious mate. That’s... that’s creepy. And illegal. And... creepy."

But her skin is so warm. So soft. She smells so good.

His wolf is panting... drooling.

"Get it together, Darien."

He works his way down her legs, pretending his brain isn’t short-circuiting every time the sponge glides over smooth skin. He tries humming to distract himself, only to stop when he realizes it’s a lullaby his mother used to sing, which makes things weirder.

Finally—mercifully... he finishes.

He pulls the plug, drains the water, and wraps her gently in a thick towel. She stirs again, groaning faintly. Darien stiffens, heart wobbling, but she settles again and her face once again goes peaceful.

He carries her back to the guest bed and gently lays her down. Now comes the next crisis: putting her into some clothes. He hurries to fetch some and returns, staring at the clean T-shirt in his hands. Then at the girl wrapped in nothing but a towel. Then back at the shirt.

"Nope," he mutters, throwing it over her like a blanket and backing away like she’s radioactive.

He can’t do it. This is too tempting. He can feel the pressure between his legs. He stumbles into the hallway and slams the door shut behind him, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Then, for no reason at all, he laughs. It’s not a sane laugh. No. It’s the desperate, borderline-hysterical kind you let out when you’ve officially lost the plot. But he has to do it. He can’t leave her half-naked like that. Hence, against all his will, he put her into the fabric.

When he’s done, his hair is damp with sweat. His hands won’t stop trembling. And he can still smell her on his skin.

"She’s going to kill me when she wakes up," he says, dragging both palms down his face.

And if she doesn’t?

Then the Moon Goddess will. Or his brothers. Or maybe the tension building up inside his gut will just explode one day and he’ll die a slow, embarrassing death fueled by omega scent and suppressed desire.

He thuds back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. She’s safe. She’s clean. Her wounds are dressed. That’s all that matters.

...Right?

.

By the time Darien comes back inside, the storm in his head has calmed just enough for him to think in straight lines again.

Almost.

His shirt clings to him in places from the faint humidity in the corridors, and his hair is damp at the temples. He takes the corner to the room like a man expecting to face a corpse, only to freeze in the doorway.

She’s waking up.

Not groggy in the charming, slow-blink way women in romance novels wake. No, this is messy; her lashes twitch, her brows knit, her head turns on the pillow as if the air itself might be too loud. The quilt slides down her shoulder, revealing pale skin marked with the faintest shadow of bruising where those traffickers had grabbed her. His stomach twists, and not in the way he likes.

Panic hits him like a punch. What in the actual hell is he supposed to do?

Run? Pretend to be asleep? Pretend she’s still asleep? He imagines himself backing out quietly, maybe slipping onto the terrace again until she’s fully conscious and... someone else is here to deal with this.

Yes. That’s a good plan. He swivels swiftly, about to bolt, when...

"Darien?"

Shit. Shit. Shit.