Page 34 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

T hane stood in the doorway of the bathroom, arms crossed, jaw working. He had followed her like a ghost back to the bedroom into the bathroom and had stood there watching as she struggled with her clothes. She could see he was itching to help but was holding himself back.

“I’m helping you with the bath.”

Faolan had managed to get her shirt off and was kicking off her pants. “I can manage. I still have a working arm.”

He moved to the sink, unrolling a waterproof sleeve and pulling it gently over her cast before taping it. Their breath mingled as he bent over the task. “You’ll get water in the padding if it’s not sealed right. And it’ll itch like hell”, he tried to reason.

“I can do that myself,” she mumbled stubbornly.

He kept his eyes on the wall. “I’ve seen you naked. It’s not like we have any surprises there.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be an arsehole.”

He winced. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, there’s no need to be shy. But if there’s anything you don’t want me to do, just say the word and I’ll step back. But I’m not leaving.”

She didn’t.

He helped her out of the panties, eyes trained stubbornly on his hands, even as she refused to look at him.

Even though he had been inside her, this was somehow more intimate than anything they had done together.

His throat worked as he stepped back to let her into the shower cubicle, shutting the frosted glass behind her.

There was no hiding the hard-on he was sporting.

Through the haze of condensation, she could still see his silhouette—tall, broad, and motionless. It was like the concept of personal space had gone out of the window from the moment he strongarmed her into staying at his flat.

“What does a girl have to do to have a wee in peace around here,” she grumbled to herself.

“Did you say something?” Thane asked from just beyond the glass door separating them.

“You don’t have work?” she asked, rinsing carefully.

“It’s sorted. Don’t worry about it.”

There was a pause, like he was working his courage up to say something. “The guys want to meet you, but only when you are ready. You tell me when.”

She reached for the soap, wincing as it slipped from her hand for the third time. With a quiet curse, she bent awkwardly.

The cubicle door slid open. Steam poured out.

Thane stepped in, still in his joggers, hair already damp within seconds. “I’ll keep my pants on,” he said. “I swear. I just want to help.” His eyes were pleading.

She snorted but didn’t protest. He reached down and picked up the soap, while she turned so her back faced him.

She felt the silence stretch as he soaped up a washcloth. She could feel the weight of his eyes on the nape of her neck.

When she turned her head slightly, she caught him with rapt eyes, his attention squarely on her backside.

She arched her brow. “You have seen me naked, no surprises there, right?” she said, throwing his words back at him. “Come to think of it, you never did like looking me in the face when you fucked me.”

His head jerked up, face tight with guilt. “Nothing I say to that is going to be right.”

“No. It won’t.”

He exhaled shakily. “Let me help you, please. Let me do this for you.”

His hands were tentative at first, running the lather across her back, shoulders, down her arms, along the tender skin of her armpits.

He was careful with the almost healed wound over her ribs, the one which had almost ended her life.

Then, after hesitating for a few seconds, his hands slid to the front of her body.

His fingers trembled as he lingered at her breasts, the lather slowly tracing over her skin with reverence.

“I love your breasts,” he murmured, the words like a prayer he didn’t mean to speak aloud.

She said nothing, but her nipples tightened in an involuntary reaction to his ministrations.

He seemed to catch himself, cleared his throat, and tried to shift into a more impersonal touch with quick, clinical motions. But his hands still shook.

Faolan studied him as he continued with his self-imposed task.

Though the nurses used to help her in the hospital, this was a totally different experience—akin to being pampered with how careful he was with her.

She was a tall woman at five feet eight, but he towered over her at well over six feet.

The veins along his forearms, the way the light hair dusted his skin, the strength underneath it.

The winding black ink on his left side conveyed a tangled script of grief and fury, but above his heart, barely visible beneath the droplets of water, was something that caught her breath.

A small red tattoo.

A pair of red slippers, faded with time.

She stared.

He followed her gaze, and his mouth twisted into an expression which was almost bashful.

“That was my first tattoo,” he confided after a minute.

She didn’t need to ask why.

Steam curled in the shower, softening the edges of everything, even the ache in her arm. Faolan shifted slightly, the water rinsing soap down her back as her voice drifted out, low and slightly slurred from medication.

“I want to wash my hair…” she muttered sleepily.

How she could sound so relaxed, so calm, when his arousal pressed insistently between them like an unspoken truth, was anyone’s guess. But she did. Somehow, she felt safe. He had knitted a warm, protective cocoon just for her.

He nodded, reaching for the bottle on the shelf. It smelt like lemon and Bergamot, her favourite brand. She didn’t even register the significance.

She was vaguely aware of him squirting some into his palm.

Then his fingers were in her hair—strong and slow, circling against her scalp. He worked the lather in carefully, dragging her into a place where sensation dulled the edge of pain.

An involuntary moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Her head tilted back on instinct, neck arched, chest rising slightly as the tension in her body loosened. Her mouth curved at the corners.

She didn’t open her eyes, but she could feel his gaze on her face.

“Tilt your head back,” he said softly, like he was trapped in the same dream as her.

She obeyed, not wanting this to end.

He rinsed the shampoo from her hair with slow, steady hands. Then she heard the faint sound of another bottle opening and his fingers returned, slower now, stroking the conditioner through the damp strands with an intimacy that felt almost sacred.

He made sure to cover every inch. His thumbs pressed behind her ears, working the knots out. His fingertips combed through the back of her neck, around her temple.

Then the water ran again, and the last of the creaminess washed down her spine.

Faolan leaned forward, her head resting lightly against his chest. His arms, strong and braced, steadied her. With her cheek muffled against the warm plane of his pec, she let out a soft sigh, sleepy and childlike.

Her bare abdomen had pressed against the thick, unmistakable shape of his arousal.

She felt his entire body jerk slightly with a sharp intake of breath.

But he didn’t step away. His muscles held taut, his breathing measured. She felt his restraint, the war beneath his skin.

She shivered with awareness.

He gently shut off the water and reached for a towel.

Then he began to dry her hair tenderly, as if she were something breakable. His hand ruffled through the short strands, cupping her skull, towelling with slow circles.

“I’ll get someone to take the brown out of your hair…if you want,” he said softly.

She nodded against the towel, eyes slipping shut.

“I want to see you with your golden hair and blue eyes,” he murmured, barely audible, almost to himself. “I’ve waited for this…”

Faolan heard but didn’t stir. She was already half-asleep in his arms, warm, safe, and exhausted.

And Thane just stood there for a long moment, holding her towel-wrapped head to his chest, his starburst eyes closed, as if trying to hold on to the moment.

Thane patted down each limb gently before wrapping her in the towel with all the care in the world.

But when he reached for the shirt, she shifted slightly, just enough for the towel around her chest to slip.

His eyes dropped and his breath seemed to stop.

The jagged wound across her chest was stark and raw against the paleness of her skin, pink and angry from healing. He had been studiously ignoring it, but now he couldn’t look at the damage he had done. He looked at her as if asking for permission. When she nodded, he gently traced the jagged scar.

His throat moved with a slow, painful swallow.

His brows drew together.

“God,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with something dark and breaking, “I’m so sorry.”

He wasn’t looking at her face anymore. He was looking at his handiwork. What she’d survived.

Faolan didn’t answer or cover up. She let him see it. Let him feel it.

A quiet beat of awareness passed between them.

Then his hand, warm and calloused, gently pulled the towel back up, shielding the wound again like it hurt him to see it.

He picked up the shirt, clearing his throat. “I got one of mine. It’ll be easier with your arm.”

“I’ll manage with this one,” she murmured.

He didn’t argue, but he got one of his and tore off one sleeve before he gently tugged it over her head.

She said tiredly, “Fine. Have it your way.”

It smelt of laundry soap and that special addictive aroma called Thane.

He walked her back to the bedroom, pulled back the sheets, and waited until she’d slid in before tucking the blanket around her again.

For a second, he stood by the edge of the bed, like he might say something. His lips parted.

Then he turned and left.

She woke to darkness and soft breathing disturbing the hair at her nape.

A strong weight across her waist and shoulder, pinning her down. But before panic could seize her chest, a low sigh sounded against her neck before the arm tightened.

Warm breath. A beard-roughened jaw scraping sensitive skin. The scent of clean skin and cotton.

“Go to sleep,” Thane murmured, barely awake.

And despite the thunder in her chest, the tangle of what they were and what they weren’t, she relaxed against his warm body.

Her eyes closed.

And this time, sleep took her whole within seconds.