When the tub was filled once more, he turned off the faucet and grabbed a clean rag off the bathroom counter.
“Talk to me,” he pleaded, dabbing the rag with a generous amount of soap. Slowly, gauging my reaction, he brought it to my shoulders.
His ministrations were slow, cautious, but I leaned into him. Everywhere the rag touched, goosebumps erupted.
“I don’t know why I feel so guilty.” I stared pointedly ahead at the golden-edged mirror. A beautiful adornment on the cream painted wall. I made out my reflection - cheeks sunken, eyes hollow, blonde hair tangled. I wondered if this was how I looked when Diego died. Another innocent brutality of this war I knew nothing about.
Ryland moved the rag down my arms, paying special attention to each of my fingers. I never thought that bathing someone could be so erotic, but each accidental graze of his hand against mine caused my skin to burn.
He didn’t interrupt me as I spoke, focused entirely on his task.
“It wasn’t my fault. Not Jakob’s death. Not Diego’s. So why do I feel such staggering guilt?” I laughed humorlessly, watching Ryland move around the tub to wash my other arm. A part of me grieved the lack of his touch for that brief moment of separation.
Ridiculous.
Utterly ridiculous.
“But Jakob’s eyes...he stared at me with hope, Ry. He truly believed that I would be his savior. But look at him! Because of me, he’s dead. I may not have been the one to do the actual killing, but...” I trailed off helplessly.
I wanted Tavvy to bleed for what he had done. I wanted him to suffer. The need was almost more compelling than the Mage bond. It painted a beautiful, yet macabre, picture. Striding towards the smug asshole with my knife held firmly in my hand. Cutting through the tender skin of his neck. Smiling down at him, as he had smiled down at the six men.
“I think,” Ryland began. He moved to sit inside the tub with me, still fully clothed. The water played with the edge of his shirt, gifting me briefly a view of his darkly sculpted muscles. “You feel guilty because you’re a good person.”
I snorted at his logic, but he continued before I could protest.
“You see the world the way the rest of us want to. Not in black or white or even gray, but in vibrant colors. You are able to separate the innocents from the predators. You recognize evil for what it is, and you wish to stop it.”
His hands were wrapped around my calf as he scrubbed at my skin. Tiny bubbles appeared on my bare leg. Briefly, I wondered if I had shaved recently. Why was that something I would think about?
I shook my head, the enticing aroma of my body wash finally reaching my nostrils. The scent was almost decadent. Pomegranates, I believed. Lupe’s favorite.
“I’ve killed a lot of people in my life,” I whispered harshly. I stared at Ryland, waiting for the moment when he would realize what a monster I was and run. His expression remained warm, if not slightly impassive, as he scrubbed the soles of my feet.
After a long moment of silence, his breathy confession breached the distance between us.
“So have I.”
I gaped at him, his words sending me reeling. My eyes tracked each and every scar on his face, so many that his skin was discolored shades of white, red, and brown.
I hoped that the people he killed were the ones who had done that to him.
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, I focused on his dark hand moving through the water and up my inner thighs. I held my breath, need and desperation causing my heart to hammer and breathing to speed up.
Despite my silent plea, he didn’t touch me where I wanted him to.
He brought the rag to my stomach, and his thumb grazed my belly button. The only sound was my sharp intake of breath and the rippling of water.
The rag inched higher, higher, higher, until it brushed the underside of my breasts. This time, I couldn’t contain the pathetic whimper that escaped me.
“Please,” I whispered. My core was aching, and I rubbed my thighs together to alleviate the pain.
When he dropped the rag, I thought I was going to die. Literally die.
Die.
Guilt chewed away at me.
“Hey, stay here. Don’t get lost in that mind of yours.” Ryland cupped my face in both of his hands, eyes searching my own. Only when he found my assent, did he release my face.
And abruptly cupped my aching breasts.
I gasped, staring at his hand over my skin and loving the contrasting skin colors as his dark hand held my pale breast. His thumb grazed my nipple, and I jerked.
Keeping his eyes trained on mine, Ryland removed his hands and lathered them in soap.
“You don’t see yourself clearly,” he whispered, bringing his hands back to my skin. I groaned at the contact, the soft pad of his fingers and rough calluses of his palms eliciting sensations I had never felt before. He paid extra attention to my nipples, pulling at them, twisting them.
“You don’t either,” I responded, slightly breathless. His hands lifted both of my boobs, scrubbing soap underneath them, before he dropped them, watching them bounce with heated eyes.
“What if I told you that the men I killed didn’t deserve it?” His voice was broken. A stark contrast to the sure, domineering man who had thrown a book at my face. “Would you leave me?”
His hands cupped water and dropped it onto my chest, washing away the soap. He did this three times before moving his hands to my thighs.
“Would you?” he whispered hoarsely.
“What if I told you,” I countered, spreading my legs wider so he could fit comfortably between them, “that I killed an innocent person as well? Would you leave me?”
“Never.” His answer was instantaneous.
His finger moved up my thigh, the touch reminding me of a
