Page 120 of Desperate People

Fifteen minutes pass before she finally opens the stall door, and when she does, she looks surprised to see me waiting.

I just lift the towel.

No words. No speeches.

She steps into it, into me, and lets me wrap it around her body.

Lets me hold her, hug her close, press my lips to her temple like I might lose her if I don’t.

And I don’t even know why I do it next.

It’s not calculated.

It’s not foreplay.

It’s something deeper.

She doesn’t ask questions as I guide her toward the cushioned vanity stool she uses when she gets ready.

She just looks at me, soft and wide-eyed, and takes a seat.

Like she knows.

Like she trusts me.

Like she wants this, too.

That alone almost brings me to my fucking knees.

I pick up the wide-toothed comb and move behind her, my big hands careful—so careful—as I run it through her damp hair.

She lets me.

God help me, she lets me.

And her eyes, when they meet mine in the mirror, are like twin pools of midnight, so full of questions, of heat, of vulnerability.

She’s not guarded right now.

Not posturing. Not posing for cameras or playing the perfect daughter of the Volkov name.

She’s just Lucy.

My Lucy.

All fucking mine.

I comb through a tangle gently, fingers brushing her scalp, and I swear I feel her melt beneath my touch.

Not sexually.

But emotionally.

Like all her armor is sliding off piece by piece and she’s letting me hold what’s underneath.

She sighs—this little breathy sound that punches right through my chest—and leans her head back just a little.

And in that moment, I know something with terrifying clarity.

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