Page 93 of Savoring Her Snake

“You remained calm and didn’t let him sway you.”

“I wasn’t calm on the inside.” I soak up his words. Praise was never given to me growing up.

“But you didn’t show him. Men like him get off on women who beg. He liked the control he had.”

I slide my hands to his chest and trace his tattoos.

“How could I not see his love?” Maybe if I did, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Why didn’t he confess?” he asks, and I frown. “He knew you didn’t feel the same. You would have turned him down. He didn’t want to face that fact, so he made up a world in his head. What he did wasn’t love. If he loved you, he would never hurt you.” He rubs his hands down my arm. “Turn.” I reluctantly remove my hands and face away. He grabs the bottle of shampoo and pours some into his hand. My eyes fill again when he gathers my hair and glides his hands over the strands, careful of the lump on my skull.

“No one has taken care of me like you do,” I confess through trembling lips.

“You were meant to be mine. The universe knew I would have to kill whoever had.” A watery laugh escapes. “I will always take care of you.” My heart falls even more. “Turn.” I keep my eyes lowered as I do, but peek up. His concentration is on my head as he rinses my hair.

He repeats the process with the conditioner, and in the silence, I accept what happened.

Stanly used his strength and my heart against me. He knew I would race to save Rylee. He knew I didn’t love him, but he snapped and tried to force his love. My mom will never change, and I have to accept that. Heath allowed me to grieve when all I wanted to do was hide. So many women have to hide their emotions, their abuse, and their fears. I found a man who encourages me to feel all the emotions without ridicule or disgust.

“Don’t move,” he says and turns off the water. I blink and watch him step out. He gets the towel off of the sink and shakes it out. “Don’t slip.” He holds out his hand, and I step out. My love for him grows as I stand on the soft mat and let him dry my body and hair. “Again,” he says, pointing to the ground, and I nod. I don’t move an inch while he walks out of the room. He’s only gone a moment before coming back, holding his shirt and wearing dry pants. I smile slightly.

“It’s flannel,” I state. He removes the towel and holds it out.

“This will be more comfortable than my others.”

I slip my arms in, and he starts to button it. It’s black with blue squares and is soft against my skin. He drops to his heels, holding my underwear. I grab his shoulder and lift one leg and then the other.

“Thank you.” I haven’t cried this much for longer than I can remember.

“No need. It’s my pleasure.” I shake my head, and he stands. He pulls me to the sink and turns me to face the mirror. I lower my eyes but startle when the brush glides through my hair. “Eyes up. Your wounds are not your fault. They will heal, and he will still be dead. They are battle wounds. You survived, and I will never allow another bruise on your body.” He opens a drawer, pulls out a hair dryer, and continues guiding the brush through my strands as he uses it. When he’s satisfied that it’s dry, he unplugs it and puts it away.

“I must be dreaming,” I mumble, staring at my face. Is he real? Did I make him up? His touch feels real.

“No dream. Believe me, I asked myself the same question.” I look at him and realize he doesn’t understand how much his words mean.

He finishes with my hair and picks me up. I stare at him while he sets me gently on the bed and gets the salve. I watch him in wonder as he rubs it on my ankles and wrists. He encourages me to stand, and he eases down the blankets. He presses his hand to my back, and I get in. I start to pull my feet up, and he guides them on the mattress.

“Lay with me,” I say when he steps back.

“I’m just going to the kitchen. You need some water for the pills.”

I nod, and he runs his knuckles down my cheek before leaving the room.

Is this how a man treats you when it’s true love?

I must be dreaming.

I slowly open my eyes and cringe when I roll to my side. Heath isn’t in bed and I don’t have to look far to see him in the dark. He’s wearing black sleep pants, his feet bare, propped up on the bed as he lounges in a chair. His gaze is locked on me.

“How long have you been watching me sleep?” I fold my hands under my cheek.

“Hours, I think,” he whispers.

“You must be tired.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” he says.

“Why?”

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