Page 43 of Dublin Beast

Heat burns against my icy flesh, and I groan, pinching my eyes shut. After a moment, I’m better prepared for the bombardment of the sensation, and I shuffle deeper into the stream.

I rest my forehead against his chest as scalding water runs over my back, soaking the shirt, now clinging to my skin. It’s not the relief I hoped it would be, and I can’t stop the whimper that escapes my throat.

“Easy,” Bryan murmurs. One of his hands comes up, his fingers threading into my damp hair, massaging slow, careful circles at the base of my neck. “This is a fleeting moment that will pass. Talk yerself through it.”

“I hate this.”

“Och, I know ye do, trouble, but this is where we are I’m afraid.”

I pinch my eyes shut and reach for the shampoo dispenser. “I smell their cigars…in my hair.”

He shifts and wraps my arms around his hips. “Let me do that. Hold onto me so ye don’t assplant.”

I do my best, but the tremble in my legs is working itself up to a quake. Still, he’s solid and I doubt he’ll let me fall even if I were to collapse.

“Thank you.” The words come out on a wave of emotion and my breath hitches.

Strong fingers rake through my hair as a burst of coconut vanilla fills my sinuses. It’s such a relief not to smell the cigar smoke that more tears come.

I try to bury my face against his chest and push it all down, but I lose my hold. All the panic and humiliation and fear rushes to the surface and I’m swallowed up.

Everything that happened from the shock of Jamie drugging me to the panic of waking up bound to the horrid violation of feeling hands on me to the humiliation of knowing an entire room full of men were ogling me…

My tears mix with the water pouring down on us, and a carnal sob rips from my throat. Bryan’s arms tighten around me and he scoops me against his chest and sits on the tiled bench at the back of the shower with me curled in his lap.

“It’s okay, lass. Feel what happened and face it. Nothing can hurt ye now. Face it all and then let it go. It’s over. Yer safe and we’ll get ye through this.”

His fingers knead at the back of my neck again, and I sink into his hold. There’s something about his deep Irish lilt and the assurance that he’ll hold off the world until I snap back from this that makes me believe him.

With his family and his lifestyle, he knows about bad shit. He’s not the kind of guy to paint things pretty just for the sake of it. Honestly, I’m so incredibly impressed with his courage and kindness when dealing with a complete female fall apart.

I don’t know how long I cry but when I surface and sit up, he gives me a patient smile, and winks. “There ye are, trouble. Nice to have ye back.”

“It’s nice to be back.” I yawn, all my energy drained.

“Aye, let’s get ye rinsed out and horizontal before ye totally run out of steam.”

My eyes flutter shut as he runs the shower head over my hair, rinsing away the shampoo and the memories of the worst night of my life.

I envision it all washing down the drain.

I want it gone. All of it.

“I’m fit. I’m fierce. I’m a f-fighter.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. Keep that on a loop in yer head when things get bad.”

I intend to. That mantra has gotten me through more than a few bad times.

When the water finally shuts off, Bryan has me sit on the tile bench while he reaches outside the shower to grab a towel. “That wet shirt needs to come off. If ye can manage, I’ll wrap this towel around ye as quick as I can. I’ll even close my eyes if yer able to do the heavy lifting.”

“I can do that.”

My muscles ache, and my body is wracked with another massive shiver as I peel the wet fabric over my head and let it drop to the bench with a heavyshlop.

His eyes remain closed. His hold on the towel keeps it as a screen between us. And he keeps everything clinical. I reach up and guide the towel against my chest and he helps wrap the thick fabric under my arms and around me. When that’s in place, he gets another for my hair.

“Are ye ready to go back to bed?” He tilts his head toward the toilet.

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