Page 432 of Rosetti Family New York
"You're beautiful," he says quietly as he reaches for the soap.
"I'm a mess."
"You're perfect," he repeats, working soap into a lather. Steam rises around us, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy.
"I've got you," he says, his hands gentle as they work around the worst of my scrapes. The words break something open in my chest. How long has it been since someone said that and meant it?
Pink bubbles swirl down the drain, taking the physical evidence of the night with them. But the emotional scars remain. "I enjoyed it," I say quietly, the words barely audible over the water. "Some part of me enjoyed watching him die."
"Good." His voice is fierce. "He deserved every second of pain you gave him."
"That makes me like him."
"No." His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes through the steam. "It makes you human. It makes you someone who refuses to be a victim."
"I don't understand you," I whisper as his thumbs stroke across my cheekbones.
"You don't have to." Water runs down his chest where his shirt has gotten soaked. "You just have to trust me."
Trust. The word lands like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I knew about myself. "I want to. But I don't know how."
"What if I am toxic?" The confession tears out of me. "What if everyone I care about ends up hurt?"
"Then we'll deal with it." He reaches for the hem of his soaked shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. "Together."
The sight of him, water-darkened and half-naked, sends heat pooling low in my belly. The word 'together' settles into my bones like a promise. When was the last time I wasn't alone in my fears?
"I don't know how to be someone's..." I trail off, unable to finish the thought as his hands settle on my waist.
"Someone's what?"
"Someone's anything." The admission feels like ripping open a wound. "I don't know how to belong to someone."
"You belong to yourself first." His voice is steady, certain. "Everything else is just details."
"And if I belong to myself, and I'm dangerous?"
"Then you're dangerous." He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I can handle dangerous."
The casual acceptance undoes something inside me. Some knot of tension I've been carrying since childhood finally loosens.
"I shouldn't want anything right now," I whisper as his thumbs trace patterns on wet skin. "I should be grieving or processing or figuring out who I am now."
"Maybe wanting is part of processing." His honesty is disarming. "Maybe it's okay to want to feel alive after coming so close to death."
"I might disappear anyway." The confession slips out before I can stop it. "I might decide I'm too dangerous and run."
"Then I'll find you." His voice is simple, matter-of-fact. "I'll always find you."
The promise should terrify me. Should trigger every self-preservation instinct I've carefully cultivated. Instead, it makes me feel safe.
"Kiss me," I whisper.
He doesn't need to be asked twice. His mouth finds mine, gentle at first, then deeper as I respond. The kiss tastes like steam and promises and the possibility of healing. I lose myself in it, in the warmth of his hands on my skin, in the way he holds me like I'm something precious instead of something broken.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathing hard. Not from exertion, but from want.
"Better?" he asks.
