Page 74 of Cruel Cravings

Brontë thrusts the shower curtain the rest of the way aside and then gestures for me to step in. I sigh, shimmying out of my panties and then doing as he’s requested. He steps into the tub behind me, and though the Klum’s shower is larger than most, the space suddenly feels cramped.

It’s an instant reminder that Brontë doesn’t seem to fit where most people normally would.

The hot water pours over us and my pulse races fast in my veins. I’m acutely aware of the fact that we’re sharing a shower like lovers would. His broad, muscular body feels like an iron wall behind me. He eclipses me in every sense of the word.

Something that should strike fear in my heart.

It should terrify me that I’ve allowed myself to be in such a vulnerable situation with the man who has stalked me for years.

As the water rains down on us, washing away the dirt, grime, and blood, I find myself at ease. I’m able to wash off all the gunk I’ve had on me after digging graves and scrubbing the porch spotless, finally turning around to face Brontë.

He’s already watching me, droplets of water sluicing down every muscled ridge of his. Clinging to the many scars decorating his face and body. His earthy brown hair’s slicked down and his eyes are more vivid and green than I’ve ever seen them.

I’ve come to accept he feels more comfortable in his mask. He uses it as a shield to protect himself from the world outside.

But as I peer up into his mangled face, I find myself drawn to the man before me. Each one of his scars seems to communicate a time he was hurt by life. The cruel world we live in wounded him, yet he’s still standing strong and unstoppable.

They’re a roadmap of the suffering he’s not only endured butsurvived.

I’ve survived too—and though my skin’s unmarked and blemish-free, a sense of solidarity surges through me. I’m just as scarred and damaged as he is.

My mask exists. It’s the face I put on for the rest of the world, and whenever it slips, they call me crazy. They villainize me and try to bring me down.

Have they done the same to Brontë?

My intuition already knows the answer.

I reach up to touch his face and he tenses up immediately. His hand snaps shut on my wrist to stop me. I frown, freezing at once to show him I mean no harm. This isn’t about judgment or cruelty. I’m simply being curious.

He understands me as well as I’ve come to understand him. He releases my wrist and drops his arm to his side, allowing me to continue.

I’m gentle and cautious, brushing my fingertips over the raised flesh that is his scars. I go slow, traveling up his wide jawand skimming across his cheek, where a long, jagged scar makes him clench his eyes shut as if it pains him.

Memories seem to inundate him, like his mind is on the moments it happened.

I caress his cheek, my soft touch lingering until he opens his eyes again.

“I like them,” I say simply. “They’re you.”

The tension corded in his broad, bulging shoulders seeps away. He grabs at my hip to ease me even closer and then he swoops in. His head bows toward mine for a kiss. His lips press into me, warm and slick from the water cascading around us.

I’m caught half off guard, my hand still resting on his cheek.

It’s the first time we’ve kissedwithouthis mask. Just his bare lips against mine.

A sharp shiver jolts its way up my spine and leaves me shuddering in his hold. For a brief moment, the chaotic noise buzzing inside my head quiets down. Everything grinds to a halt and I’m left floating in the pleasant tingle Brontë’s kiss gives me.

We separate only seconds later, studying each other in silence. Steam rolls around us and the scalding water hardly registers.

Finally, we come to our senses and twist off the faucet. I collect clean towels from the bathroom cabinet and pass Brontë his. We dry off in more silence as another idea occurs to me.

“We should wash our clothes before we go,” I suggest. “You only have one pair of pants that fit you. None of Mr. Klum’s do. We’ll be on the road for days.”

He concedes with a nod.

Over the next two hours, I throw a load in the washer, running our clothes through the deep clean cycle, followed by the dryer. I hand Brontë back his pants nice and toasty from the heat of the dryer and turn to gather my own.

We’re lucky to find even one shirt in Mr. Klum’s closet that fits him without shredding.

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