Page 66 of A Forbidden Arrangement
I click my tongue and fuss over him, brushing his hair out of his face like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You kept your promise.”
He leans into my touch, the tightness in his shoulders easing. The wildness fades, replaced by exhaustion. “What’s that?”
“You kept me safe.”
He exhales against my palm, the fight draining from him. I don’t pull away. I stay there, close enough for him to feel my heartbeat, close enough to show him he doesn’t have to be afraid of what I see. I just hold him until the shaking stops.
Chapter 30
Xander
The water runsred as it drips from my face and onto the shower floor. Dahlia is sitting on the counter, facing away from me. In silent agreement, neither of us has moved more than a few feet apart.
The doctor came earlier and said she’s fine. Shock and exhaustion. Temporary disassociation. Minor laceration. All of it labeled normal, like that word could make any of this acceptable. But nothing about tonight feels right. Not the way her hands tremble or the empty look in her eyes. No medical report could touch what’s really broken here.
Then he reminded me that none of this is normal for her, and it would be quite the shock. I didn’t need the fucking reminder.
I’ve never been as terrified as when I turned and saw her watching me. I told her to close her eyes. I didn’t want her to see me like that. Not when I was more monster than man. I’ve spent weeks trying to show her I can be someone she trusts. Then I tore that apart in seconds.
The rage hit like a switch. I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. By the time I stopped, Elliot was dead, and Dahlia had seen every side of me I’ve spent my life trying to bury.
I remember reaching for her, blood slick on my palms, before jerking back like I’d touched fire.
I thought I was a brave man. I’ve faced death so many times, fear doesn’t even register. But I don’t know what I would have done if she had flinched away from me. I have never been as afraid as I was at that moment. With my bloody hands clenched at my sides, I felt like I’d been cut open and laid bare in front of her. Pain radiated in my chest as I kneeled there helplessly, waiting for her judgment.
Then she pulled me in close, her fingers brushing the cut beneath my eye. It wasn’t deep, barely worth noticing, but she still worried over it like it mattered. The way she looked at me, focused and gentle, unaware of what it did to me, left no room for denial. I’ve thought it before, but right then, it hit hard and certain. She owns me.
I rinse the last of the blood away and shut off the water. Steam clings to the air as I dry off and grab a pair of sweatpants. When I glance over, her head turns slightly toward the sound. Still quiet. Too quiet.
“All done,” I say, voice low.
She slides off the vanity, my shirt hanging loose on her frame. The neckline slips off one shoulder, exposing a strip of skin that pulls my focus and refuses to let go. When she moves, the hem rides higher, brushing the tops of her thighs, and my pulse spikes before I can stop it. I drag in a breath, forcing control back into my body. She’s been through hell. The last thing she needs is me thinking about how good she looks in my clothes.
Her gaze slides to my chest, and heat tightens low in my gut when she bites her lip. I count backward from ten, run equations through my head until the edge eases. I want to pin her against the counter, but not like this. Not after everything that’s happened.
When I open my eyes, she’s still looking. Lashes low. Cheeks flushed. I pull my shirt on before I do something I’ll regret, then steer her gently toward the door. She raises a brow when I sit her in the chair instead of letting her crawl into bed.
Forget confession. People should pray to me. I’m a goddamn saint.
“Don’t move,” I say.
I jog back to the bathroom, grab the brush and dryer, and return. She tracks me with those wide eyes until I stop beside her.
I lift the brush, but her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. “I can do that,” she says. Her voice is rough, raw from silence. It still hits me square in the chest.
“So can I.”
She narrows her eyes.
“Don’t worry.” My thumb drags lightly along her pulse before I pull away. “I know how to be gentle.”
I gather her hair and start slowly, brushing from the ends up, careful not to tug. Her scent fills the air, soft and sweet. The little goose bumps that rise along her neck threaten to undo every bit of patience I’ve built tonight.
She watches me in the mirror, eyes dark and searching. Every now and then, she blinks slowly, like she’s testing whether I’ll fade when she opens them again.
When I finish brushing, I pick up the dryer and let warm air move through her hair. The hum fills the silence. Her shoulders relax. Her breathing steadies. By the time I’m done, it’s silk between my fingers.
I shut off the dryer and let the quiet stretch between us.
