Page 72 of Breaking Isolde
He nods, like he expected this answer, then heads to the sideboard and pours water from a carafe into a crystal glass. He brings it to me, sits on the edge of the bed, and waits while I sip it. The water is luke-warm. The glass is heavy, stupidly fancy for a dorm suite.
But I guess that’s what money allows. Stupid shit.
When I finish, he sets the glass aside. “I’ll go run your bath.”
I weigh my options.
“I’ll do it myself.”
“Nah.” He shrugs, stands, and walks to the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. I hear him running water, the sound of the tub filling. He returns, hands up on the doorframe, showing off all those muscles that make my core clench, and says, “You need help getting there, unless you want to crawl.”
He’s right. I can barely move my legs, and the thought of walking on my shredded feet is enough to make me want to puke.
“Fine,” I snap. “Carry me.”
He grins, and for a moment the monster is back. He scoops me up bridal style, and carries me to the bathroom. The tub is enormous, white, with claws for feet. Steam rises off the surface, and the smell of mint and eucalyptus hits me. He sets me on the edge, then crouches and unwinds the bandages from my feet.
They look worse than they feel: skin raw, purple, toes swollen and fleshy, nails black. He hisses through his teeth.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
I say nothing. He peels the rest of the tape from my palms, exposing angry red skin and three new blisters.
“You were running like your life depended on it,” he says with a hint of pride.
“It did, moron.”
He tests the water with his hand, then slides his arm under my knees and lowers me into the tub. The heat is instant agony, then relief. I sink down, bite my lip, and refuse to make a sound.
He sits on the closed toilet lid, arms folded, watching me.
I glare at him. “You can leave now.”
“I’ll stay,” he smiles, and doesn’t elaborate.
The water stings, but I scrub anyway, watching the brown and red swirl away from my skin. I lift my foot, examine the cut across the arch, then let it drop with a splash. My hands are shaking.
He watches, and after a minute, says, “If you want, I can help.”
I want to say “fuck you.” But I want the pain gone more.
“Fine. But you don’t get to touch my tits.”
He laughs and grabs a washcloth from the counter. He dips it in the water, then kneels beside the tub and starts with my shoulder. His touch is gentle, precise. Not clinical, but not sexual either. He works the cuts, dabs at the scrapes, checks every inch of skin for infection.
He’s focused, mouth set, brow furrowed.
I watch his face. It’s different now. The arrogance is gone. There’s no trace of the predator, just the bone-deep concentration of someone trying not to fuck up again.
I want to talk to him,really talk, about everything. The Hunt, his past, my sister. Where I fit into all of it. The words don’t come and I’m not sure how to form them.
He moves to my back, fingers careful over the bruised ribs. He winces when he sees the purple and yellow bloom over my side.
He rinses the cloth and moves to my thighs, scrubbing out the pain, massaging the muscle. I try not to squirm, but the pain is sharp and clean, like it’s burning away everything that came before. Washing my hair is a ritual in and of itself, but he takes his time, working out the knots and dirt until my hair squeaks under his fingers. By the time he finishes, the water is the color of weak tea, and my skin feels new, as if I’ve shed the last layer of the old me.
His hands grasp my forearms as he helps me stand, then wraps me in a towel, patting my hair dry with another. He carries me back to the bed, sets me down, and leaves to get the first-aid kit.
When he returns, he kneels by the bed and starts dabbing ointment onto my feet. He wraps them with fresh gauze, tapes my hands, checks the swelling on my ankle.
