We have been whittled down to our purest elements by the barbaric events we experienced. There’s no more bullshit left between us. No pretense or anger or mind games.
Our gazes are locked; I can’t look away. There are deep shadows beneath his eyes — evidence of his sleepless vigil. I want to trace them with my fingertips, erase them with a kiss. I want to lean forward, press my mouth against his, and forget about the world outside this room for a while.
Thankfully, I manage to pull away before I cave to the impulse. My cheeks are stained red as I sit up. I’m mortified by myself. By my own weakness. I hope he doesn’t notice my blush in the dark. I hope he can’t discern the shameful desire saturating my bloodstream, mixing with the pain already pumping there.
“I need to shower,” I whisper. Between the dust and debris from the explosion yesterday, the germs and grime from the hospital, and the sweat from my fitful sleep, I’ve never felt dirtier in my life.
Carter sits up too. His breaths are a bit uneven but when he speaks, his voice is steady. “Do you want me to call someone to help you?”
I glance at him. “Would…”
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“Tell me,” he orders softly.
I can’t look at him. I look down at the bedspread instead. “Would you help me? I just… I don’t want to be around anyone else, right now. I’m not ready to face the rest of the world. Only you.”
There’s total silence in the room for a long moment — so long, I begin to think he’s not going to answer me at all. But then, so softly I can barely hear him, he simply murmurs, “Okay.”
I try to walk to the bathroom, but the ache in my battered body makes it impossible. The pain meds have definitely worn off. I cry out, almost falling, but Carter manages to catch me for the second time tonight. Carrying me into the bathroom, he sets me on the shallow stone bench inside my walk-in shower, then kneels down so we’re at eye level.
“Do you—” He breaks off, swallowing roughly. “Do you need me to—”
I shake my head and reach for the drawstring of the sweatpants they dressed me in at Fort Sutton. They’re huge — probably the former property of a military cadet — and they slide easily to the tiled floor. My thighs press against the cold stone as I reach for the bottom hem of my shirt and begin to pull it up over my head.
Carter averts his eyes, turning to the valve controls embedded in the wall. He turns on the rainfall setting, sidestepping to avoid the sudden torrent. I stare at his back, watching as he shoves a hand beneath the stream to test the water temperature. Once it’s perfect, he sets my bottle of shampoo and conditioner on the bench beside me.
“There. Good to go,” he informs me without turning, his voice tight. “I’ll be just outside the door. You can call me when you’re done and I’ll bring you a towel.”
I push shakily to my feet, using the wall as a brace to keep the weight off my leg with the worst of the bruising. Shuffling a step closer, I watch the muscles flex beneath the fabric of his t-shirt when I reach out and lay a hand on his back.
“Carter.”
His name is a plea on my lips.
Letting out a low, pained groan, he turns to face me. The look in his eyes when he sees me standing there, stripped to the skin, nearly makes my quaking knees give out completely. His gaze drags down my body, taking in every curve, every slope, every infinitesimal detail.
Any other day, I’d feel self-conscious or stupid for putting myself on full display. But after everything that’s happened, there’s no room in my head left for embarrassment. And no desire in my heart for any more barriers between us.
Steam is filling the bathroom, fogging up the glass cube around us. Carter’s whole body has gone rigid with tension. I can see it in his every muscle and tendon. He doesn’t close the gap between us, but the unadulterated longing in his eyes tells me how ardently he wants to.
“Emilia… let me get someone else,” he begs, eyes still drinking me in. “Please.”
“But I want you.” I take a shaky step toward him. “I need you, Carter.”
I need you to make me feel alive again.
I need you to remind me that I didn’t die today.
That there are still things worth living for, worth fighting for.
His expression is a study of mismatched halves — pain and longing warring in equal measure. He wants this too. Badly. Maybe even more than I do. He’s just better at controlling himself.
I take another shaky step. This time, I nearly lose my footing. He sees my stumble and grabs hold of me before I fall. The minute his hands hit my bare skin, I know it’s over.
Conflict, meet resolution.