Page 197 of Carrick
I moved back to her side and cradled her gently under the arms, helping her rise. She swayed, her body weak from the emotional flood, from exhaustion, from everything. I guided her to the edge of the tub, helped support her descent. She stepped in one leg at a time, then let me help lower her with both arms as the warm water welcomed her in.
She sank like a sinner into absolution. Her body stretched long in the water, breasts gently cresting the surface, her head tipping back until it rested against the curved porcelain. A soft breath left her lips, so quiet I barely caught it.
She still didn’t open her eyes. But she breathed. And I stayed kneeling beside her, one hand on her arm, the other brushing back her hair as the lavender-scented steam rose around us.
The bruises on her shoulders caught the light—dark, rich shades, evidence of what she had taken and still endured. I didn’t look away, didn’t flinch. I studied them the way someone studies the sky before a storm. Not with fear. With awe.
“You’re incredible,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “You have no idea.”
Still no response. But she didn’t pull away. And slowly, her breathing evened out.
There was no need to rush. No need to speak. The water lapped gently against her ribs. The light flickered low and warm across her cheek.
I just sat there, one hand trailing along her forearm, keeping her tethered. Keeping her here.
Inside my chest, something unraveled—something I’d never let myself feel until now. It wasn’t mere affection, or even pride. Not just devotion, either. It was an ache, vast and unshakable, like it had always lived beneath my ribs, waiting to be named.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to run from it.
She hadn’t spoken a word since the scream left her throat in the playroom, soaked in salt and rage and prayer. That silence still clung to her like steam to skin—quiet, but not empty. There was meaning in the stillness. Depth in the way she breathed, slow and unsteady, like her lungs were learning to take in air again without shattering.
She sank deeper into the water, floating with just her face breaking the steaming surface. Her hair fanned out around her,a dark halo drifting just beneath the surface. Her skin glowed in the dim light, flushed pink from heat and exhaustion, streaked with marks I had put there. Each bruise was a monument to survival. Each welt a small rebellion against the ache she’d buried for too long.
I should’ve stayed outside the tub. That was the plan. Let her have space. Let her come down. Let her breathe without the weight of my body near hers. But something inside me was unraveling, too.
Not from guilt. Not from uncertainty. From the sheer, unbearable ache of loving someone so much I couldn’t sit on the other side of the porcelain anymore. I needed to be with her. Not to fix. Not to lead. Just to be.
I stood slowly, moved to the far end of the tub, and climbed in behind her without a sound. The water was still warm, still scented with lavender and salt, and when it closed around me, it felt like stepping into a sacred sanctuary made of steam and silence.
I settled in, my legs straddling hers beneath the surface, my back against the curved porcelain wall. Then I reached for her—slow, cautious—and slid both arms around her middle.
She didn’t flinch. Her head fell gently back onto my shoulder, her body molding into mine like it had always belonged there. Her hands rested over her stomach, loose and open, and I let mine cradle her ribs, my palms fitting around her like a vow.
I pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. And I stayed.
Her breathing was still uneven. Not panicked. Not distressed. But raw. Like her lungs were remembering how to move through grief without collapsing. Every now and then, she made a soft sound—not a sob, not a sigh. Just a tremble in her throat that made me tighten my hold just a little more.
I didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say that could matter more than this.
My hands drifted over her stomach, her hips, her thighs beneath the water—not to arouse. Just to comfort. To soothe. To make sure she felt it—felt that I was there, that I wasn’t leaving, that I wasn’t afraid of the wreckage she’d shown me.
Because I wasn’t. I would have burned with her. Drowned with her. Carried her through the ruins of her own fury and sobbed with her, if that’s what she needed.
But she hadn’t needed my grief. She’d needed my stillness. So I gave it. I gave her the quiet. I gave her my breath, steady against her ear. My chest, firm against her back. My arms wrapped around her like the world could fall apart again and I’d still be holding on.
And inside, I could feel it building. Not just the ache. Not just the pride. Something deeper. Heavier. The terrifying, unshakable knowing that had taken root in my chest somewhere between her first sob and the way her voice cracked when she begged whatever gods were left to bring him back.
I loved her.
I fucking loved her. And it didn’t come with fire. It didn’t come with a storm. It came like this—quiet as a breath in the dark. Steady as her pulse under my palm. A truth so simple it scared me.
But I didn’t say it. Not yet.
Instead, I slid one hand up her chest, spread my palm flat between her breasts where her heartbeat stammered and settled, and whispered so softly I wasn’t sure the words even left my mouth — “I’ve got you.”
The water lapped gently against the edge of the tub. The silence thickened. And still, she didn’t speak. But she didn’t need to. She leaned into me. Trusted the stillness. Trusted me. And that was everything.
I just kept holding her, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other trailing soft, steady circles over her ribs. My palm rose and fell with every uneven breath. Her spine curved gently against my chest, head resting beneath my chin, legs nestled between mine beneath the surface. She fit there like she’d been carved to—imperfect and warm and real.
