I give the doc a vague nod, still coming to terms with the fact that I have to do anything with the Pagano woman to begin with.
She shouldn’t be here.
I made the wrong choice. I’ve failed Rina again.
Correctly interpreting my silence as dismissal, Dr. Ruiz packs up her things, leaving a collection of pill bottles, fresh sterile bandages, and instructions on the bedside table. She’s almost out the door when she stops and turns to me. “Mr. Valentin, one other thing.”
“Hmm?”
“The patient—she needs a bath. To help with the recovery process and stave off further infection. You can roll the IV stand into the bathroom with you. Keep the bandages dry but get her cleaned up. The sooner, the better.”
One part of my brain tracks the doctor’s movements as she heads down the hall and out of the apartment. The other is itemizing all the ways I want her to be wrong about the bath and cursing because she isn’t.
Not to be harsh, but the Pagano woman really does stink. Her hair is a hard matted mess, her skin streaked with filth.Grime and God knows what else is buried deep under her nails. Under the comforter, her kneecaps are almost black. The doctor cleaned the wounds on her wrists and ankles, but streaks of blood are still visible on her arms and legs.
There’s no way she can heal properly when she’s this dirty. And the faster she’s healed, the faster I can put her out of my mind and put my focus where it needs to be.
Blyad. Guess someone is getting a bath.
Resigned to my fate, I spend the next few minutes gathering supplies and figuring out the safest way to get her into the tub without disturbing her IV or bandages. She’s been naked since I brought her into the apartment, so I don’t have to worry about exacerbating injuries while stripping her. A small mercy I’m not sure she’s going to give a shit about when she finds out I washed her while she was unconscious.
I deal with human bodies all the time, can catalogue their most vulnerable points. Can maim with precision, kill with one blow. I’m more aware than most of how mechanical our pile of muscle and bones really is. How simple it is to flip the off switch on these organic machines.
I can end someone’s life without blinking.
In comparison, applying a little soap and water should be a piece of cake.
I’ve only just started the process when I realize how wrong I am.
She’s in the tub; I’m kneeling on the floor beside. I’ve kept the water level low to help avoid an accidental drowning and deposited a healthy dose of bubbles to make the whole cleaning process more efficient. That’s my first miscalculation.
The bubbles make her skin slick, her torso slipping dangerously low every time I let go of her non-IV arm. After a few more grips and slides, I realize I’m fighting a losing battle. Not only is she not getting clean, but I’m manhandling her on top of it.
Fuck.
With a deep sigh, I steel my resolve. There’s only one way to get this done. With her arms carefully draped over the edges of the tub, I prop the Pagano woman up while I strip down to my underwear. Jaw locked, I step into the bath, maneuvering us so that I’m sitting behind her, my legs bracketing the outside of hers as I lean her back against my chest.
I know what’s happening, am watching myself do it in real time, but I’m still not ready for the full-body contact.
I can’t remember the last time I was skin to skin with someone, in or out of water. I’m not a monk. I get off when I need to. Find release with a willing woman who doesn’t ask too many questions and doesn’t care that I never spend the night. I’ll happily screw a woman against a wall or bent over the closest flat surface. If my fuck buddy wants to get naked that’s her choice. But I keep my clothes on, my weapons strapped in place. Letting my guard down is tantamount to getting killed.
What’s happening now, inch after soft inch of warm bare skin pressed against mine—this level of exposure is something I don’t do. There are too many vulnerabilities laid bare.
That’s the reason my heart is pounding so hard.
Theonlyreason.
A statement I silently repeat as I rest the Pagano woman’s head against my shoulder and carefully sweep a washcloth down one arm and between her fingers, keeping the bandages and IV line dry.
Be gentle with her.
I grind my teeth together, keeping my movements slow and methodical, and my eyes on my work. I manage to clean both arms and hands without too much trouble but stumble when I reach her legs.
Jesus Christ, her legs. They’re bruised and cut and filthy, but I’d have to be blind not to notice how long they are, or thesubtle way the insides of her thighs curve up to meet her torso. The thatch of black hair nestled between them.
Talk about inappropriate. The woman’s family has degraded her to nothing more than a commodity. I’m not going to make things worse by sneaking a peek at her snatch. Eyes averted, I clean her legs as best I can, avoiding the abrasions around her ankles.
Applauding myself for not being a complete shit head, I move on to her back, only to realize that this is going to be even worse. I have to lean her forward, carefully resting her weight against one arm to get access to her shoulder blades and everything below. Her spine curves gently, bubbles slipping across the fine lines of her muscles as I brush the cloth across her skin.