Page 86 of Her Name in Red
She turns to look at me fully now, those gray-blue eyes searching my face. “That's not an answer.”
“It's the only one that matters.” I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel her gaze burning into the side of my face. “Cursed implies you're a victim of something. You're not a victim, Maren. Neither am I.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I've said too much or not enough.
“You don't believe in fate?” she finally asks.
“I believe we make our own.” I turn onto her street, slowing the truck. “I believe I was meant to find you, but what we do now—that's our choice.”
Chapter 29
Maren
Watching him as he parks the truck, I notice how sharp his profile is against the glow of the dashboard. The blood drying on his skin causes mine to sing in my veins.
The walk to my apartment is silent. Not the uncomfortable kind but the kind where words would just get in the way. His hand rests on the small of my back, steady and warm. Grounding me.
Once inside, I lock the door behind us, then stand there staring at the red on my hands. It's under my fingernails, in the creases of my knuckles.
“Bath or shower?” Riggs asks, already shrugging off his jacket.
“Shower,” I say.
He nods, then steps closer, his hands finding my waist.
“Arms up,” he commands softly.
I comply, letting him pull my shirt over my head. He drops it onto the growing pile of clothes that'll need to be dealt with later.His fingers trace a line of blood across my collarbone, feather-light.
“You're beautiful,” he murmurs.
“Covered in someone else's blood?”
His smile is slow, dangerous. “It complements you.”
In the bathroom, he turns on the shower, testing the temperature with his hand. Steam begins to fill the small space as he finishes undressing me, then himself. The sight of him never gets old. No one’s body should be that put together. It should be illegal. Like a blond Adonis.
He steps into the shower first, then holds out his hand.
The water hits my skin, turning pink as it washes away the evidence of Detective Harlow. I close my eyes, tilting my face into the spray. For a moment, I just breathe, letting the heat and pressure work their magic.
Then, his hands are on my shoulders, turning me to face him. I watch his face as he studies mine, his hands coming up to push my hair back from my forehead. There's something reverent in the way he touches me now, like I'm both dangerous and precious.
“Let me,” he says again, reaching for my shampoo.
“I’m not helpless, Riggs,” I tell him, but there's no edge to my words.
“Never said you were.” He squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his palm. “But you don't have to do everything alone anymore.”
I start to argue, then stop. There's something in his eyes—something raw and honest that makes my throat tight.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if you get soap in my eyes, I'm stabbing you.”
His laugh echoes off the shower walls. “You keep threatening me with that, nightmare.”
His fingers start massaging my scalp, I feel something inside me crack open. My eyes flutter shut against my will.
“That's it,” he murmurs, working the shampoo into a lather. “Let go for me.”
