Page 15 of Unexpected Heroine

Bastards.

If James doesn’t make them pay, I’ll do it myself. Eventually.

I rinse the washcloth, then hold it out to him. He tries to take it from me, but I don’t release it. “More soap, please.”

He nods, instantly understanding.

Four times, I clean the tender spot between my legs.

Then four more times, I clean my rear.

Sadly, it’ll never be enough.

When I ask for more soap for the ninth or tenth time, he shakes his head and takes the cloth from me, throwing it onto the shower floor. “That’s enough. You’re clean. I’m not going to let you scrub yourself raw.”

The only reason I don’t fight back is sheer exhaustion.

I’ll get another shower tomorrow morning. And again in the afternoon and before bed. I’ll squeeze a bath in there somewhere too.

He cuts off the water and leads me out of the shower, instantly wrapping me in a clean towel. The fresh smell of laundry detergent fills my nose as I soak in the warmth and comfort.

Soft, fluffy cotton blissfully cuddles my skin. It’s like a little slice of heaven.

You’d be surprised how much you can miss something so commonplace when it’s taken from you.

At least I smell good despite how contaminated I feel.

When James physically attempts to dry me, I put my foot down. “I can do it.”

“I love taking care of you, sugar bear.”

“I know you do. But I’ve got it.”

Backing away slowly, he grabs his own towel and proceeds to dry himself, never taking his eyes off me.

With my body dried, I attempt to wrap my hair in the towel like a turban. When I bend over at the waist to hang my head forward, shards of pain shoot through my midsection. “Ahh, shiiit.”

In a flash, he drops his towel and scrambles to my side. “Your ribs?”

“Yes,” I force out with a hiss.

“We should get you an X-ray tomorrow.” Placing one arm around my upper back, he takes the towel with his free hand. Slowly, I straighten my frame, letting him assist me.

I’m so fucking broken.

He moves behind me for a better angle, then languidly squeezes the moisture from my long locks into the towel.

“Thank you, babe,” I whisper as the pain slowly ebbs. “But I draw the line at letting you brush my hair and teeth.”

“I’d do it if you wanted me to,” he rumbles from over my shoulder.

There’s a velvety softness to his tone. It reminds me of how he sounds when we’re intimate. I know he’s not turned on right now, but it sounds like he’s using his special voice. You know the one.

The normalcy of that thought seems to unlock my tongue. I quirk my head to look over my shoulder at him and widen my eyes. “Are you using your... sex voice?”

His jaw drops. “What? Lettie baby, no. No. I wouldn’t.”

As he’s metaphorically clutching his pearls, a modicum of a smile tries to escape me. For a split second, I forget how awful I feel.

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