Page 32 of Silas

I rinse my hair and let the suds swirl down the drain. Making the water hotter, as hot as I can stand it, I once more just let it beat down on my body, letting the heat soak into my muscles.

Finally, when the water begins to run cool, I shut the spray off and towel myself dry. The small bathroom is wreathed with steam. I wrap the towel around my torso and then flip my hair forward, twisting it into another towel to make a turban—I always feel connected to Mama when I put my hair up like this. Some of my strongest memories of her are, for some reason, of her just out of the shower, hair up in a turban, droplets dotting her bare shoulders. I remember sitting on the floor just outside the bathroom watching her rub lotion onto her legs as steam skirled and whorled around her, flitting against the mirror and receding as the cooler air from the hallway battled the humidity of the bathroom.

Like Mama used to, I put my foot up on the closed toilet lid and rub the complimentary lotion on my legs, from hip to arch of my foot—having the luxury and liberty of something as simple as putting on lotion feels so bizarre and amazing that I fight back tears of joy and gratitude.

In fact…

I allow myself to put lotion oneverywhere. I use as much as I want. My skin feels so soft, and I smell good. I feel good—bruised ribs aside.

I have no idea how long I’ve been in the bathroom, and you know what? It doesn’t matter. Silas won’t yell at me for being selfish, for taking too long.

Silas won’t yell at me at all.

I put aside thoughts of my savior—it’s too complicated;he’stoo complicated. I’m not ready. Right now, I just want to enjoy the feeling of being alone, safe, and free.

I pull the towel out of my hair and let my long, heavy locks hang down my back. I need a hairbrush, but a search of the bathroom drawers produces nothing. Oh well. Maybe Silas will be able to find one for me. It would require asking him, and the prospect of doing so leaves me shaking so hard I have to discard the idea. It’s too frightening.

I hang both towels over the shower rod and then head into the bedroom to dress.

I’m about to step into my underwear when I hear a mechanical whir and click—and then the squeak of the hinges as the door opens. Panic freezes me in place, my underwear clutched in white-knuckled fists.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Silas enters the room, eyes on the smartphone in his hand, the other tucking his room keycard into his back pocket. I know I should cover myself, but fear and habit keep me paralyzed.

He halts just inside the room, clicks a button on the side of the device, and slips it into his hip pocket. Looks up.

Sees me.

His eyes widen. A heartbeat. A second. His gaze sears my flesh, raking down my body. I see a complex mixture of emotions cross his face—it’s brief, a flurry of expressions here and gone before his face shuts down.

The first thing I see is male appreciation: lust, as his eyes take in my naked breasts, hips, and privates. But then he sees the bruises and his jaw tightens. Rage contorts his features. His hands clench into fists.

“Turn around, Naomi.” His voice is low, rough, shaking with fury.

I can’t. I can’t obey. I can’t move. I’m not breathing. Tears fill my eyes and trickle down my cheek, runneling along my jaw and dripping off my chin.

He seems to realize I’m paralyzed. He moves past me, behind me, and I feel his gaze on my back. I don’t think he’s appreciating my female figure, however.

“Fuck.” It’s growled. “Fuck. I’ll kill them both, vow be damned.”

I feel a breath of cool air swirl over my bare skin, hear his tread. My every muscle is tensed so hard it hurts. My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen.

Something drapes over my shoulders. “Arms in, honey.” His voice is downright tender.

I can’t obey him. I want to. I just can’t. A whimper peels out of me, soft, shrill, pathetic, terrified.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m sorry I walked in on you, Naomi. I should have knocked first. I wasn’t thinking.”

I barely hear him—it’s the second timehe’sapologized tome. I can’t process such a bizarre thing, a man apologizing to me.

“Can you put your arm in for me, Naomi?” He’s still behind me.

It’s a robe. He’s put a robe on me.

I try to obey him, try to make my arm move, but the paralysis won’t release me. “I—” a shuddering breath scorches my lungs, and I squeeze my eyes shut, tears flowing. “Can’t. I can’t.” It’s all I can manage.

“Okay, that’s okay.” He moves around in front of me. His eyes are green. Summer grass, oak leaves in the sunlight. They remain on mine as he oh-so-gently helps me put my arm through the sleeve, and then the other. Without taking his eyes off mine, he closes the robe and ties the belt.