Aaron flexed his jaw as though debating whether he should complain about the druid’s involvement.
Kai made a quiet noise in the back of his throat. “Let’s shower first, then you can tell us everything that happened.”
In the ladies’ showers, I raided my locker for soap, shampoo, and clean clothes, and hustled into a shower stall. A minute later, I was standing under the hot water, washing away the sweat and grime of over a week as a wanted rogue.
After a luxuriously long time spent soaking, scrubbing, and shaving, I got out of the shower, dried off, and proceeded to apply product to my hair, moisturize my face, and floss and brush my teeth. Thoroughly brush my teeth. May I never go another day without a toothbrush.
Anxious butterflies fluttered in my gut, the unknown hanging over me, but I felt more human than I had in a week. I dressed in cotton yoga pants and a lavender tank top. The scent of clean clothing was like heaven. I finally exited the showers, carrying my jacket, a sweater, clean socks, and my not-so-clean shoes with one hand and my combat belt with the other, the back pouch weighed down by orb-Hoshi.
As I crossed the fitness room, the sound of running water filtered in from the men’s showers. No way Aaron or Kai would take this long to clean up. They’d probably been in and out in ten minutes—five to shave, five to shower.
Swerving toward the room, I flipped my belt over my shoulder and rapped on the door. “Aaron? Kai?”
A muffled male voice answered me, and a moment later, the door opened. Ezra held it with one hand, and in the other was a toothbrush, its bristly end in his mouth.
He also wasn’t wearing a shirt.
My gaze dropped, seeking out his injuries. Not only were the stab wounds healed, but the tearing of his scars caused by Eterran’s exit from his body had transformed into pink lines. The scars would probably be thicker than before, but not by much.
Health assessment complete, I greedily drank in the sight of his jeans clinging to his lean hips, the black waistband of his boxers peeking out, before allowing my attention to return to his face. His pale eye had survived without any additional damage, the scar that ran down his forehead to the hollow of his cheek mostly unchanged.
He canted his head, inviting me into the shower room.
Eyebrows arching with bemusement, I set my things on a nearby weightlifting bench and walked barefoot onto the tile floor. The room was identical to the women’s showers: a bank of sinks opposite a wall of lockers, with a bench in the middle. On the other side of the door, several shower stalls were hidden by heavy plastic curtains.
One of the curtains was open and steam floated out, the shower heating up before Ezra got in.
He hurried to the sink and spat out his mouthful of toothpaste. I waited patiently—I could wait patiently all night long with such a mouthwatering view of his thickly muscled arms.
“Sorry,” he said after rinsing his mouth. “I just need a hand since you’re here.”
My eyebrows arched again. “What sort of hand?”
“I can’t reach to wash this off.” He turned around, showing me his back. Shiny silver lines dotted with runes ran down his spine, most of the array already wiped away.
Ah. Elisabetta’s and Miles’s work, I assumed. “Sure. Got a cloth?”
“I already put it in the shower. One sec.”
He headed for the running shower, and I followed behind him. In the stall, he reached through the spray, water splashing over his arm, and grabbed a white washcloth from the little shelf under the taps where his soap and shampoo waited. He held the cloth under the spray to soak it, then handed it to me.
I bit my lower lip as he turned around. Pressing the cloth to his back, I scrubbed away the lines with slow precision. Very slow. Was I taking my sweet time? Oh yes, I was.
A memory flitted through my head—standing in the shower with Zak, washing dragon blood off his back. I’d been breathless over his appeal, but nothing I’d felt then compared to the way my heart drummed in my chest right now, each beat shuddering inside me.
I wanted to throw the cloth away and put my hands on him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let go. I wanted to—
Realizing my hand had stopped moving, I lowered the washcloth. “Okay, you’re good.”
He swiveled to face me. “Thanks.”
“Mm.” Reaching out, I touched one of his scars where it crossed his hip. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better.” He watched my hand as I traced the scar up to his sternum, then stretched out his arms to display the other, fainter scars that crisscrossed his bronze skin. “A lot of wear and tear, huh?”
“At least you’re still in one piece.” I looked up into his mismatched eyes. “So you’re feeling good now?”
“Yes?”
“Healthy and hale again?”
“More or less.”
“Not going to collapse or anything?”
“No.”
“Good.” I chucked the washcloth into the shower, not caring where it landed, then hooked my fingers over the back of his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him.
His lips melded against mine and his hand sank into my damp hair. I pressed into him—and he stepped back, bumping the wall.
“I need to shower,” he said, his smooth voice rumbling in a way I very much liked. “You’re all clean and I’m—”
I dragged his mouth back to mine and kissed him again, tasting his minty toothpaste.
“Then get in the shower,” I breathed against his lips. “I’m not stopping you.”
He hesitated—and I opened my lips against his in invitation. His tongue slipped into my mouth and I moaned softly, fingers raking over his shoulders.
Two feet away, the shower pounded against the tile floor, steam drifting around us. I
