Page 22

T he door clicked shut behind us. My pulse spiked. I'd invited him to bathe with me—and now we were here. Just us. Steam curled in the air, softening the pale blue tiles and fogging the mirror. The claw-foot tub filled steadily. And the prescription bottles on the counter seemed to stare back at me, silent witnesses to what was about to happen.

He grabbed my wrists and pulled me deeper into the bathroom, blocking my path to the door.

"I don't think I can do this," I whispered, the panic rising so fast it made my voice thin. The thought of being naked in front of him turned my limbs to lead.

I should have been terrified. I should have run or screamed. Yet that fear had always been addictive. Part of me craved the way his presence filled the room. I remembered that first night at Hellbound, when his dark eyes found mine across the bar.

"I've seen everything," he said as he moved closer. His words were sharp and measured. Then his tone softened: "Made you come."

"T-That's different!" My voice quivered. He stepped closer, forcing me to look up at his obsidian stare. His heat and scent—smoke with a metallic tang—made my knees weak.

"How?" Genuine curiosity was rare from him.

I closed my eyes, shame burning beneath my skin. "Y-You walked in on me. I didn't know you were there." When I opened my eyes, his gaze cut through my excuses.

"And?" That single word made any response impossible. The truth was clear—I had surrendered to his touch, let hunger overcome my insecurities.

V stepped back. His fingers moved toward his waistband. My throat went dry. I hadn't considered that his joining me meant seeing all of him.

"W-W-What are you doing?!" I stuttered. I covered my eyes, but left a gap between my fingers. The tap turned on. Water began to fill the tub.

V said nothing. He stood before me, hand sliding slowly down his abdomen until it reached his waistband.

My heart raced as he unbuckled his belt. The clasp clicked softly above the water's roar. His fingers worked the leather free, the belt sliding silently from his waist.

Every instinct screamed for me to turn away, yet I couldn't tear my gaze from him as he methodically stripped. Yet I remained, peering through my fingers as his hands moved to the button of his jeans.

His fingers worked with surprising delicacy, performing this intimate act with unexpected grace. The button released. Then, with excruciating slowness, he lowered the zipper, the soft rasp of metal teeth parting sending an illicit shiver down my spine that I couldn't suppress.

His eyes never left mine, even as I pretended not to watch. The weight of his gaze pinned me in place as effectively as physical restraint, leaving me breathless with anticipation and fear. The denim slid lower on his hips, revealing a sharp V-cut of muscle disappearing beneath dark fabric that made my mouth go desert-dry.

I swallowed hard, the sound embarrassingly loud in my ears.

With the same deliberate pace, he hooked his thumbs into his waistband—a brief pause, as if offering me one last chance to turn away. Then, with fluid grace that belied his massive frame, he pushed the remaining clothing down and stepped free.

My barrier of fingers trembled. Lowering my hands fully, I drew in a ragged breath that seemed to fill my entire body with fire. He pulled his muscle tank over his head, revealing his torso for the first time. My eyes widened at the sight, taking in every detail of his exposed form, which now meant...

Oh my God.

V stood naked before me, his imposing height making even this standard bathroom feel small. Only his face remained concealed, creating a stark contrast with his exposed body. A network of scars crisscrossed his muscular torso like a violent map, disappearing below his waist only to continue down his powerful thighs. My entire body seized. Heat crashed through me in a violent wave, my lungs forgetting how to function, my heart stuttering mid-beat. The room tilted dangerously around me.

I wanted to look away. I needed to look away. But something deeper, more visceral, kept my eyes fixed on him. My lungs seized, caught between desire and terror. I shouldn't want to see him—this man who terrified and controlled me. Yet I couldn't tear my gaze from the hard planes of his body, the untamed power contained in every inch of him. Something molten unfurled low in my belly, contradicting the panic clawing at my throat.

His body was a map of raw strength—unyielding, scarred, and impossible to look away from. The marks that crossed his torso continued down his powerful thighs, evidence of a past that had tried and failed to destroy him. My gaze traveled lower, and I inhaled sharply. He was impressive and intimidating, like the rest of him. The sight sent a jolt of heat through my core, my body responding instinctively to his naked power. There was terrible beauty in him—dangerous yet mesmerizing in his physicality.

I moved away slightly, just to see if I could. But his hand shot out, catching my wrist with unrelenting force. Not harsh—never harsh—but absolute. A reminder that escape was an illusion I no longer possessed. The silent gesture vibrated through me with more power than any words could have, and the feeling coiled around my throat like a silk noose. My pulse fluttered beneath his grip, a caged bird recognizing its captor.

The compulsion to shield my eyes again clawed at me, yet I remained transfixed. Warmth bloomed across my face, spreading down my neck in a telling flush that I couldn't control. The rising steam from the tub only intensified the heat beneath my skin, making it impossible to hide my reaction. My gaze traced the landscape of his torso where scars disrupted the terrain of his deep brown skin. An ache bloomed in my fingertips, yearning to map each mark. What disaster had scorched this across him? V had mentioned surgery, but this resembled the aftermath of something demonic unleashed upon human flesh. My inspection traveled to the skin above his heart, where his measured breathing and scorching stare couldn't distract me from what lay beneath.

My lungs ceased functioning. The bathroom tilted around me as I froze, understanding crystallizing with devastating clarity.

"What's that?" My voice thinned. My fingers hovered just shy of contact, the truth too sharp to touch, afraid that making contact would make this reality too concrete to deny.

Time suspended between us. The water stilled. The steam paused in its lazy drift. Even the persistent drip from the faucet—the one I'd been meaning to fix for months stopped.

An uneven, jagged circle etched into his chest caught my attention—a crude, imperfect "O" scored directly over his heart. The skin there puckered and raised, long healed but still prominent. This wasn't ink. This was a scar—something he'd cut into his own flesh. My stomach dropped at the thought of him marking himself this way.

His finger tapped the marking twice, the gesture unexpectedly deliberate. "O." His voice dropped to a register I'd never heard before, something stripped and unguarded beneath his usual coldness. "For Oakley."

My fingertip traced the crude letter, feeling each ridge where the knife had torn through his flesh. I stared at the mark, understanding hitting me like a physical impact. He had cut himself, etched my initial into his skin. The reality left me speechless.

I didn't even know I mattered enough to hurt for. And yet... he bled for me before I ever looked his way.

This wasn't just obsession. This was devotion written in scars. He had marked me into his body before I'd even spoken to him. Before I was his. And if this was what he did before knowing me...

A vow written in flesh and pain before I even knew I belonged to him. The thought made my veins turn to ice... and then, inexplicably, to fire. Because if he had marked himself for me before I was his, what would he do now that I was?

"When did you decide to do this?" My question held many layers. When had this man decided I belonged to him? When had he cut my initial into his own chest? When had he become so fixated on me?

Nyla and Joslyn had revealed the brotherhood pact—each man tattooed their partner's initial over their heart. With V's paralyzing fear of needles, this marking seemed impossible. "When did you get it?" His palm pressed over the O, covering it possessively.

"The day we met." His gaze didn't waver as he spoke, the confession delivered with the same certainty as if he were stating that water was wet or that night followed day.

"You've had it for that long?" My voice cracked with the weight of this revelation. My mind conjured unbidden images: V alone at Hellbound, hand quaking as he carved me into his flesh before he even knew me. The revelation overwhelmed my senses. Had he been this devoted to me all along, with no way to demonstrate it? Had he felt this connection from the very first moment, something so profound that only blood and pain could express it?

My mind filled with vivid images—the blade against his skin, the determination in his eyes as he scored himself permanently with my initial. I swallowed hard, unable to reconcile the devotion of such an act with the short time he'd known me.

His dark eyes held mine, unflinching in their intensity, as though daring me to comprehend the depth of what he'd done. The steam from the bath rose between us, carrying with it the weight of this revelation.

"Your turn," he rumbled, the two words carrying the weight of a command, a plea, and a promise all at once.

V closed the distance between us, my attention still captivated by that crude tattoo. His large hand tugged insistently at my shirt—the oversized tee I'd thrown on after work, the fabric worn thin from years of washing, a security blanket as much as a garment.

"Take it off." His command ricocheted off the tiled walls, claiming me before his hands even touched my body. His eyes consumed me, already possessing every inch beneath the fabric. The rushing water drowned out any awkward silence. I inched backward, my hands quivering, stomach hollowing with dread and something dangerously like anticipation.

"I-I-I'll do it." He remained motionless but close, his gaze searing through me, tracking every micromovement. Running would be futile. He would hunt me, capture me—there was no escaping his orbit. Not that I truly wanted to. But this surrender was something I struggled to grant even myself, let alone another soul.

My body betrayed me in more ways than one—not just in this moment of terrifying vulnerability, but every day. The hormones that waged war inside me had reshaped my figure, distributed weight where I couldn't hide it, left me with unpredictable pain and cycles that followed no calendar logic. Tonight, at least, my body had granted me mercy—no cramping, no unexpected bleeding, no flare of the persistent pain that doctors had minimized for years—small mercies in the face of this greater exposure.

Uneven breaths tore from my lungs, the room's humidity becoming oppressive. My fingertips clutched my shirt's hem with white-knuckled intensity. Sweeping damp strands from my face, I battled to harness courage I didn't possess. With one decisive motion, I pulled the shirt overhead. My security blanket gone, I fought the urge to collapse and scrabble for cover. I forced my gaze to remain steady on him, despite the shallow gasps betraying my composure.

If I looked down, I'd run. If I thought too hard, I'd cry. So I stayed in my body like it wasn't mine, hoping he wouldn't see all the places I'd learned to hate.

V's attention dropped from my face to my chest, and I clung to false bravado. The swell of my breasts spilled over the pale pink balconette bra—the pretty one I'd worn today by chance, not expecting anyone would see it. His obsidian gaze locked on my abundant curves as I maintained my chin's defiant angle, my breathing gradually steadying despite the thundering of my heart.

Mirroring his earlier actions, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of both leggings and underwear. One humiliation was enough—both would go together. I ducked my head, silently mouthing profanities as I bent, managing to remove them without toppling over and compounding my embarrassment.

I kept my eyes down, focusing on the task at hand rather than the weight of his gaze. My hands trembled as I removed the last of my clothing, hyper-aware of every movement, every inch of skin being exposed. The vulnerability was overwhelming, but there was no going back now. I had invited this—invited him—and some part of me needed to see it through to whatever end awaited.

Rising with manufactured confidence, I confronted the final barrier between us. My fingers fumbled behind me, clawing uselessly at the clasp. Anxiety rendered my hands useless, trembling too violently to manage the hooks. V closed in completely, our bodies separated by mere molecules. His massive frame eclipsed me as he reached around, midnight hair cascading over my shoulder, igniting a constellation of goosebumps across my skin. Deft fingers unhooked all three clasps while I held my breath captive. He withdrew slightly, those same fingers dancing across my shoulder as he caught the straps, easing the bra away as he retreated.

Instinctively, my arms crossed over my exposed torso. Warm, calloused hands captured my wrists before I could shield myself. My legs nearly buckled beneath me, forcing me to brace one hand against the counter for support. My knees threatened to give way entirely, my body betraying the depth of my terror. Dread manifested as a cold weight in my gut, radiating outward until even my fingertips felt numb.

His fingers traced a scar above my heart before following the lines of my body. His weathered past met my sheltered existence in stark contrast. I shouldn't have wanted this connection between such different worlds. Shouldn't have craved the meeting of his hardened exterior against my softness. And yet, my breath hitched as his knuckles brushed the barest whisper of a touch against my ribs, as though memorizing every curve and hollow.

As the last fabric fell away, a strange hollowness opened in my chest—not shame but a terrible, acute awareness that no one had ever truly seen me before. Not like this. Not with such unrelenting focus that missed nothing and forgave everything. The weight of his gaze collapsed something vital inside me, and I realized with startling clarity: I'd spent my entire life being looked at, but never truly seen.

"S-Stop staring." The weight of his gaze felt undeserved; the hunger radiating from him couldn't possibly be meant for me. For my fuller figure, for the stretch marks that mapped my hips and thighs, for all the imperfections I'd spent years trying to hide.

"I like looking at pretty things." My throat constricted, pressure building behind my eyes as his words penetrated my defenses, his voice vibrating through me like a physical touch. His muffled words carried a raspy quality that sent electricity coursing down my spine. Tears threatened as his declaration sank in—he found me beautiful, standing naked and vulnerable.

His grip released my arms, and my body mourned the absence immediately. The sanctuary of his restraining touch abandoned me. He turned away, reaching for the faucet and shutting off the flow. His voice, low and smoke-rough, drifted toward me.

"I can't tell if the water will burn." Glancing back over his shoulder, ebony hair cascaded down his scarred back. He reached for my hand, his touch sparking electricity where our skin connected. Guiding me forward as tears still threatened to spill, V lowered my hand with exquisite care into the bath. His fathomless gaze studied me for any reaction, as though the water might somehow harm me.

"Good?" His eyes darted across my face, watching for any sign of discomfort.

I caught my lower lip between my teeth and nodded, the threatened sob now clawing at my throat.

He released my hand and stood, stepping into the tub. Water sloshed over the sides, but I couldn't summon concern. He folded his knees up, dark eyes beckoning as he extended his hand toward me. Swallowing became an Olympic feat as countless emotions crashed through me. I lifted one leg, toes breaking the water's surface. Relief flooded through me at the perfect temperature. I sank into the warmth, welcoming both the heat of the water and the man waiting behind me.

The knot in my throat remained, burning. This experience was uncharted territory. V appeared unfazed, but he had nothing to hide with his sculpted perfection. Standing exposed before him was one challenge; sitting would reveal what I considered my greatest flaw. The way my stomach folded when seated normally hid beneath oversized shirts. Now, there was nowhere to hide—he would see everything from his vantage point. The water's initial comfort faded, that first sensation of relief dissolving into nothing.

The white porcelain of the claw-foot tub gleamed in stark contrast to V's dark form within it. The bathroom itself was small but elegant—pale blue tiles lining the walls, a vintage mirror hanging above an antique sink. The bathroom counter told my medical story in amber bottles and specialized products—prescriptions for regulating hormones, the expensive facial serum that fought my persistent acne, supplements that promised to ease my symptoms. I hadn't thought to hide them before inviting him in. V's gaze had briefly cataloged these intimate artifacts of my condition before dismissing them as unimportant. These details that normally comforted me now seemed to spotlight my vulnerability, reflecting light onto my exposed form from every angle.

His large body dominated the space, making the tub seem smaller than it was. With each shift of his powerful frame, water lapped against the porcelain, against my skin, a constant reminder of his overwhelming physical presence. My own body felt diminished yet hypervisible in his proximity.

Unexpected warmth cascaded down my spine as he cupped water and let it flow across my back. Goosebumps erupted along unfamiliar paths. Behind me came the sound of movement, followed by a shampoo bottle's plaintive wheeze as it surrendered its last contents. Anxiety coiled within me, my fingers clutching the tub's edges, unable to surrender completely to the moment.

Air snagged in my throat as V's fingers combed through my dampened hair. The tightness in my throat no longer threatened tears but a contented sigh at his ministrations. His fingers worked magic against my scalp, twisting strands between them, the scent of lavender shampoo rising in the steam, mingling with the copper tang that always seemed to linger around him. His knuckles grazed the naked expanse of my back, sending a current along my spine.

Time slowed to a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. Water trickled, droplets pattered, his breathing deepened. His powerful hands worked methodically. Each stroke against my scalp sent waves of pleasure radiating through me, melting away my tension. Had anyone else ever experienced this controlled side of him? The thought that I might be the only one to experience this side of him made my heart swell painfully in my chest, like a bird beating against the confines of its cage.

I noticed my grip on the tub's edge loosening, finally allowing the tension in my legs to dissolve. More heated water followed as V guided the shampoo from my hair with methodical care, ensuring no suds remained to irritate my skin later. His thoroughness spoke of a devotion I'd never expected, each movement deliberate and reverent.

"Lean back." His words startled me—not their meaning but his voice slicing through our cocoon of silence. The command traveled through me like a physical current, settling low in my belly. A peculiar serenity washed over me, a foreign sense of safety. These small acts of care affected me deeply. V had gradually changed my life in ways I couldn't have anticipated. Minutes ago, nausea had gripped me at the thought of nudity before him. Now? I yearned to dissolve into his embrace.

Somewhere deep inside, the cautious part of me marveled at how much had changed. I'd have been horrified at the thought of such intimacy with him. Now, I was the one who had invited him in. My old hesitations seemed like distant memories as his presence filled my senses, his name echoing with each beat of my heart, a rhythm I was beginning to trust.

Something shifted inside me then—a sense of reciprocity that hadn't been there before. He had cared for me; now I wanted to return that care.

I turned slightly, just enough to see the shampoo bottle resting on the edge of the tub. "Let me."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly—the barest hint of surprise in those dark depths. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, as though processing an unfamiliar request. Then, with the slightest inclination of his head, he yielded.

I reached for the bottle, my fingers shaking—barely, but enough to betray me. This wasn't just about washing his hair—it was crossing a boundary, initiating intimacy rather than merely receiving it. The bottle was nearly empty. I tipped it carefully, squeezing the last remnants into my palm.

"Turn," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of water against porcelain.

He complied, shifting his massive frame to present his back to me. His hair hung in a dark curtain down to his shoulders, some strands clinging to his scarred skin. I lifted a hand to touch it, hesitating momentarily before sinking my fingers into the thick, heavy curtain.

V went utterly still beneath my touch. Had anyone ever touched him this way? With care rather than intent to harm? As he surrendered his head to my hands, I felt a tether snap inside me—breaking free. His trust was unexpected and complete. A tremor passed through my chest, not from fear but from the intensity of the moment. No one in my life had ever made themselves this vulnerable to me. The water ran black with ink from his hair, and I found myself fighting tears, wondering what other darkness I might wash away if he'd let me, if I could bear to try.

I discovered a rhythm, emboldened by his response. My fingers worked from his temples to the nape of his neck, discovering the contours of his skull beneath the silken strands. With each stroke, I felt him yield further, his head gradually tilting back to give me better access.

The vulnerability of this position—his throat exposed, his eyes closed—stole my breath. This man survived by vigilance, yet here he was, allowing himself a moment of blindness in my presence. Trust, from someone who had every reason never to trust again.

"Tilt back," I murmured, mimicking his earlier instruction.

He angled his head, allowing me to cup water in my hands and pour it over his hair. I watched, mesmerized, as rivulets traced paths down his neck and over his shoulders, highlighting scars both old and new. My fingers followed, ensuring all soap was rinsed away, lingering perhaps longer than necessary against his skin. The sound of water cascading over him filled the small room, a peaceful counterpoint to the tension between us.

When I finished, he remained motionless for several heartbeats, water dripping from the ends of his now-clean hair. Then, slowly, he turned to face me again. Something had shifted in his gaze—a new awareness, an unasked question.

No longer needing to feign confidence, I did something wildly out of character.

I twisted awkwardly to face him fully. My body displayed—every mark, fold, and dimple laid bare for his inspection. He straightened, his imposing frame still braced against the tub's back. His gaze absorbed every inch of me. My wet hands gripped the porcelain as I craved connection.

What expression lay beneath? What secrets did he hide? For months, his hidden face had terrified me. Now, it drew me forward with magnetic force. His face, once a source of fear, now seemed like the last secret between us—the final piece keeping me from truly knowing him.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst out and run without me. Every warning bell in my mind screamed to stop, but my body was already moving. Screw caution. Screw boundaries. This wasn't about thinking anymore.

I moved without thinking. The gap between us closed. My lips found his mask—cold against warm. Through it, I felt the shape of his lips. Water splashed as I gripped him. My fingernails left half-moons on his wet skin. The copper-smoke smell of him filled my head, made me dizzy.

Oh my God. I kissed V.

The synthetic material was cool against my lips, a strange barrier between us. Yet I felt the warmth of his breath through it, the firmness of his mouth beneath. Time suspended, stretched into infinity as we connected. The world contracted to this single point of contact—this impossible, imperfect connection. Even with the barrier between us, I felt closer to him than I'd ever been to anyone else—the mask a symbol of everything he kept hidden, yet somehow everything he was willing to reveal to me alone.

I felt his mouth open slightly beneath mine. A sound caught in his throat—something raw and unexpected that sent a shiver through me. Had my simple touch affected him that deeply? The possibility that I might hold some sway over this imposing man was startling. For all his strength and control, maybe I reached him in ways I never imagined possible. The thought was both unsettling and thrilling.

I pulled back, mortification flooding my system. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" Panic strangled each syllable. What had I done? What unspoken boundary had I crossed?

As I began to retreat further, his hand halted my withdrawal. Damp palms framed my jaw with careful restraint. His eyes, dark and intense, held mine for a heartbeat before he pulled me forward.

Something still separated us, where I desperately wanted nothing between us. He pressed his covered lips against mine with sudden urgency, the pressure sending butterflies rioting through my stomach. His fingers threaded through damp hair at my nape, dispatching shivers to secret, responsive places. My body shifted slightly with the motion, the water lapping against the porcelain as I found myself facing him more fully now, my knees bumping against his thighs in the confined space.

Withdrawing slightly, V maintained his gentle hold on my face. His thumb traced the contour of my bottom lip while his intense gaze fixated there. His touch left fire in its wake, each brush of his fingertip against my skin sending waves of sensation through me.

"I haven't felt anything in years..." his voice vibrated through to me, barely audible, "and now I can't feel anything but you."

His hands vanished, and shame surged before I could stop it. Had he seen too much? Had I been foolish to believe he could want this body? The cruel voices from my past surged forward— You really thought he could want someone like you? The sudden absence of his touch left me cold and exposed, vulnerability morphing rapidly into humiliation.

His hands moved my protective arms away from my chest. His touch delivered immediate solace, banishing those destructive thoughts in an instant. He guided me to turn, the water swirling between us as I pivoted until my back was nearly against his chest, both of us now facing the same direction. Those calloused hands, that had known such hardship, encircled my torso with unexpected grace. I gasped, my brain automatically commanding my muscles to contract, trying to minimize my presence.

"Don't do that." His words emerged from behind the mask with quiet authority. Not a threat—a plea.

He'd noticed my reflexive retreat. Unsteadily, I forced my body to relax. Fresh tears scalded my eyes, his perceptiveness the trigger. His fingertips traced the silvery roadmaps of my stretch marks, the pale lines stark against his deep, warm-toned skin.

"They feel ugly, don't they?" His fingers captured a damp strand clinging to my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The question surprised me—not accusatory but understanding, as though he recognized something familiar in my shame.

He shifted behind me, water cascading over the tub's edge as he repositioned himself, his legs now on either side of mine. I could feel the heat of his chest hovering just behind my back, not quite touching but close enough that each breath he took created a subtle current of air against my wet skin. His fingers mapped the silvery rivers across my skin, and my chest shattered when he didn't flinch away. He touched the parts I hated with reverence, and suddenly, I hated them a little less. The stretch marks mapped more than just growth—they told the story of hormonal battles, of weight that appeared and retreated without permission as my body struggled to find balance. For years, specialists had offered pills and platitudes but little understanding, until I stopped expecting anyone to see beyond the symptoms to the woman beneath.

A lifetime of hiding these marks, of believing they made me unworthy of touch—and here was this dangerous man studying them like constellations that might guide him home. My eyes burned, vision blurring. His touch asked permission to know the story written on my skin, every chapter I'd tried to erase.

"Beautiful." His fingertips traced over the indentations. "Every single inch."

He had seen the evidence of my condition scattered across the bathroom counter, written on my skin, and still chose this word. The declaration, so simple yet so profound, fell from his lips with absolute certainty—the same tone he used when telling me I belonged to him. An irrefutable fact.

His hand moved lower, resting with familiar gentleness against my abdomen where the monthly pain centered. Something in the way he traced me like terrain seemed knowing, attentive—as though he understood this was contested territory, a battleground where my body fought itself. Unlike the doctors with their dismissive glances and hurried examinations, his presence acknowledged the invisible struggle without requiring explanation. When his attention found the coarse patches of skin along my jawline—evidence of hormones I couldn't control—I flinched, but his gaze never wavered.

When his hand settled against my lower abdomen—right where the pain lived, where doctors had dismissed and strangers had judged—my lungs locked. Years of medical appointments, of being told it was in my head, of learning to live with invisible knives beneath my skin, and somehow he knew exactly where to touch. Not to hurt but to acknowledge. My body, so long a battleground, became something else under his hands—territory worth claiming, worth defending. I turned my face away, hiding the first tear that escaped, mourning for the girl who'd believed she'd always fight this war alone.

As his words settled into me, the space between us disappeared. His powerful arms encircled me fully, drawing me back against his chest. I let my weight sink into him as he leaned against the back of the tub, my spine aligning with his torso, my head finding the hollow beneath his chin. The water rippled and settled around our now-still forms. He wrapped himself around me like I wasn't broken. Like I wasn't hard to love. Like I hadn't spent years apologizing for my body taking up space. My breath hitched as his forehead descended to the curve where my neck met my shoulder. He inhaled deeply, his exhale dancing across my dampened skin.

Pressed against his chest, feeling his rhythm sync with mine through water and bone, a stark clarity washed over me.

I was already his—had been since before I knew his name.

The fear that hollowed my stomach wasn't of him anymore, but of the person I was becoming under his hands—someone unrecognizable who craved things I couldn't name.

That woman was already gone, as surely as if she'd drowned in this very tub, and whoever emerged would be someone else entirely—someone born of his darkness and my surrender.

I came into this room scared to be seen. I was leaving it terrified of being left.

The water had cooled, but I couldn't bring myself to move. His arms formed a sanctuary I wasn't ready to abandon. The thought of stepping out of this tub, of breaking this spell between us, made my chest ache with a sharp, unfamiliar pain. I pressed back against him, as if I could somehow completely dissolve the boundaries between us.

"Can we stay like this forever?" V asked, his arms tightening around me as if afraid I might disappear.

No, we couldn't.

But did I want to?

The quiet beat of his heart settled against me. I let go, sinking into the safety of him, into a belonging I'd never known I needed.

I was starting to.