Page 53 of Crystal Wrath
He disappears into the adjoining bathroom, and I hear the sound of running water and the opening and closing of cabinet doors. The bathroom is as luxurious as the bedroom, with all marble and gold fixtures that gleam in the soft light. When he returns a moment later, he carries a bowl of warm water, clean towels that smell of expensive detergent, and a small first aid kit. The domestic nature of his actions strikes me as incongruous with the violence we just escaped, yet somehow perfectly fitting for this complex man who defies every expectation.
I watch, with my heart in my throat, as he kneels in front of me and sets everything down on the bedside table. His movements are careful and reverent, almost as if I might break beneath his touch. The air is thick between us. His hazel eyes, normally so guarded, are open and vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.
The bowl steams slightly in the cool air of the room, and I can smell the faint scent of lavender from whatever he's added to the water. His hands, so capable of violence, shake almost imperceptibly as he arranges the supplies. It occurs to me that he's never done this before, never tended to someone's wounds with such gentle care. The realization makes my chest tight with emotion.
“You didn't have to do all this,” I whisper.
Renat lifts his gaze to mine, and the gold flecks in his eyes glimmer, making them appear almost luminous. He dips the towel into the bowl, the water darkening slightly as it absorbs the fabric. Steam rises from the cloth as he wrings it out carefully.
“Yes, I did,” he responds, his voice holding no argument, only certainty.
He reaches toward my face with the warm towel, his movements slow and careful, giving me time to pull away if I want to. But I don't want to. I want his touch. I need it like I need air to breathe.
He gently presses the towel to the side of my face, where a bruise has formed along my cheekbone. The skin is tender and swollen, throbbing with each beat of my heart. The warmth soothes the aching immediately, but more than that, it's the tenderness in his touch that undoes me. His fingers are gentle against my skin, tracing the edges of the bruise with a reverence that makes tears sting my eyes.
I don't flinch from the contact, though every instinct tells me I should. After what I've been through tonight, I should be afraid of any man's touch. But this is Renat, and despite everything Iknow about his world, about the violence he's capable of, I trust him completely. The realization should terrify me, but instead, it fills me with a warmth that has nothing to do with the towel against my skin.
“I'm sorry,” I murmur, the words barely audible in the quiet room.
He stills, the towel pausing against my cheek. “For what?”
I can see in his eyes that he already knows how I'm going to respond, but he needs to hear me say it. He needs me to acknowledge what my actions tonight have cost us both.
“For not listening.” My throat tightens as I look down at my hands, unable to meet his intense gaze. “For slipping out of the newsroom through the bathroom window. For getting Amelia involved. For making you come after me.”
The words tumble out in a rush, steeped in guilt and regret. I think about Amelia, probably pacing her apartment right now, worried sick about what happened after we escaped. I think about Nick, who trusted me to be smart and safe, who's probably wondering why I haven't checked in. Most of all, I think about Renat, bleeding and exhausted because he had to rescue me from my own stubborn determination to pursue a story.
He is quiet for a long moment, the towel resuming its gentle ministrations against my bruised skin. I can feel him studying my face, taking in every mark Bennato's men left on me, cataloging each injury like evidence in a case he's building against them.
“You're not the reason this happened,” he finally declares, his voice steady and sure. “Bennato has been circling for weeks. If it wasn't tonight, it would have been another day.”
Despite his words, I hear the undercurrent of self-recrimination in his tone. He blames himself for not anticipating this, and for not protecting me better. The burden of responsibility sits heavy on his shoulders, and I recognize it because I carry a similar burden myself.
“But I made it easier,” I admit, the truth bitter on my tongue.
Renat lowers the towel and reaches for a smaller one, this one meant for my hands. My skin is raw where the duct tape tore away, leaving angry red marks that burn with each movement. The sight of my injuries seems to affect him more than his own bullet wound, his jaw clenching as he takes in the damage.
“You're stubborn,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as he begins to clean the abrasions with infinite care. “But brave.”
His praise softens something inside me I didn't realize was wound so tight. Throughout my career, I've been called reckless, impulsive, and too determined for my own good. But brave is something different entirely. Brave suggests purpose, intention, and courage in the face of danger rather than simple foolhardiness.
I wince as the damp cloth touches the raw skin of my wrists, but I don't pull away. The pain is manageable. Renat notices my reaction immediately, his touch becoming even gentler, his movements slower and more careful.
“You were shot,” I point out, my eyes moving to the bloodstain on his shirt.
The blood has dried to a dark, rust-colored hue, and I can see where it's beginning to adhere to his skin. He needs medical attention, proper cleaning, and bandaging, but he's focused entirely on caring for me instead.
“I've been shot before,” he says simply, continuing his careful ministrations to my injured wrists. “This one just happens to hurt more.”
His attempt at humor falters beneath the strain of the night, but it earns a weak smile from me nonetheless. There's something endearing about his effort to lighten the mood, to reassure me when he's the one who's bleeding. It reveals the depths of his character, the protective instincts that drive him to put others’ wellbeing before his own.
I lift my gaze to meet his, our eyes locking across the small distance between us. His eyes are darker than usual, the gold flecks muted in the soft lighting of the room. But there's an intensity there that takes my breath away, a raw honesty that I haven’t seen before.
“Why did you do it?” I whisper the question that's been burning inside me since he appeared in that stilt house like an avenging angel. “Why take the risk?”
Renat straightens slightly, setting aside the towel and first aid supplies. His jaw flexes, the muscle jumping beneath his skin as he struggles to find the right words. I can see the internal battle playing out across his features, between his natural inclination to guard his emotions and his need to be honest with me.
“Because I couldn't stand the thought of you being in his hands,” he begins, his voice low and rough with emotion. “Because I knew he would break you just to send me a message. Because the moment I heard you were taken, everything else stopped mattering.”
