Page 132 of Kept in the Dark
I know we won, but I’m too battered and tired and worried to feel only happy about it.
It takes much longer than it should to get back, since Dimitri takes every back road he can. We’re pulling into the driveway of the mansion before it occurs to me to ask, “What do we do about the… um… the bodies?”
“After Mac gets back to check on Eleanor, we’re going to stage it so it aligns with the story we give you for the police,” Wesley says.
“Okay,” I agree, because what else am I going to do? This is so… way over my head. It’s so beyond what I ever care to worry about ever again.
Dimitri helps Eleanor and then me out of the passenger seat, and we head inside. It’s a blur. I’m in a daze, and the next thing I know, Dimitriand I are in the bathroom and he’s gently peeling my sweatshirt over my head.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” I ask, realizing how much blood he’s wearing as I rest my hand on his sticky shoulder when he encourages me to step out of my jeans.
“No,” he replies too quickly.
“I don’t believe you,” I say softly, and I do mean it, but I don’t really have the energy to fight him.
He ignores me to start the shower, then resumes his perusal of my naked body. There’s no heat in his eyes, just an almost clinical concern as he checks me for injuries beyond the ones I already told him about. I have a few cuts and bruises, but I’m otherwise unscathed. Somehow.
“Take off your clothes,” I insist. “Let me make sure you’re okay, too.”
More ignoring. He bends over and retrieves the first-aid kit from one of the bottom drawers in the vanity and sets it on the counter, then takes my hand and ushers me into the shower under the spray.
I wipe the wet hair from my eyes. “Get in here with me. You’re covered in blood.”
I think he’s going to protest, or ignore me again, but he lifts his shirt over his head with a grip on the back of his collar, and lets it fall. It makes a wet plopping noise on the tile, heavy with viscous fluids. His pants fall next, and he slides off his boots, so it all comes off in a big pile that he kicks aside, leaving a streak of red against the tile.
When he joins me in the shower, my instinct is to wrap my arms around him, but then I see the outline of a bruise on his ribs. I reach for it, but he catches my wrist. “I am fine, Nicole,” he says.
“I don’t believe you,” I repeat, this time more forcefully. “Let me take care of you, too.”
“You do not need to. Not while you are... not like this.”
He steps into the spray and scrubs roughly at his skin. I suck in a breath, turning a gasp into a sharp inhale through the nose when I seethe tiny cuts and more bruising on the pale skin of his back. That broken mirror on the elevator…
When the water runs clear from his efforts, he moves me back under the stream and starts gently soaping me up. I don’t have nearly as much blood to wash off, but I appreciate the warmth, even if the water stings against the cut on my cheek. When I wince and gently prod at the swollen area on my cheekbone, he watches the movement with a frown.
“Will it scar?” I ask.
He reaches for my cheek, replacing my fingers with his own. “No,” he says with an unexpected, faint smile around the corners of his mouth.
I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed. It might have been nice to have a battle scar—and I’d even kind of match Dimitri, with it on my face—but I know I wouldn’t want to look in the mirror and be reminded of the worst night of my life. I realize with a start that that must be how Dimitri feels. It didn’t occur to me that a scar could be more than just marred skin and a ruined self-image. It’s a memory of whatever he was feeling, of the bone-deep fear and helplessness.
My heart aches.
I reach up and curl my hand as far as it will go around the outside of his. His thumb stops its gentle path along my cheekbone, and he pulls back, spinning his palm to grab mine and draw my hand towards him. He presses his lips against the back of my hand, squeezing his eyes closed. My pulse thumps, spiking at the tender contact.
“Dimitri, talk to me,” I plead.
He nods, as if he’s agreeing to do as I’m asking, but he says nothing. Instead, he rinses me, reaches around me to turn off the water, and guides me gently from the shower. I have half a mind to take a stand and refuse to do anything else he wants until he talks to me, but I’m chilly outside of the steam, so I let him tie my big, fluffy robe around my waist.
He roughly towel-dries himself, tosses it on the floor, and takes my hand to lead me back out. Though I get to watch his round ass as he walks towards the couch, I’m almost too distracted to appreciate it.
I’m starting to think he’s still upset with me after yesterday, but when he sits, he pulls me on top of him by the tie of the robe. With his dick stretched up between us, I straddle his lap, a leg on each side, and settle against his chest. What’s normally an eight-inch height disparity in his favor is turned on its head as he has to tilt his head up to meet my eye.
His fingers curl around my waist, his grip a little too tight to be comfortable, but I don’t care. I place my hands on his shoulders, and we stare into each other’s eyes.
He nods at me again, and it’s a different one this time. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. This one means he’s ready to talk.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
