Page 48 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

A house this old was never quiet. There was the creak of the timbers, the ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall, the pitter-patter of raindrops on the windowpane. Occasionally a stray grunt from a wild animal of some sort broke the silence of the night.

Faolan sat curled up on the faded couch, blanket still around her shoulders, ears tuned to every creak and gust outside.

Her nerves buzzed like the adrenaline of escaping a fate worse than death hadn’t quite drained from her veins yet.

She was still on edge, still halfway between fight and flight.

And what she had seen in the warehouse only heightened the sensation of standing on tiptoe at the edge of a cliff.

As a police officer, she could not condone what she had seen in that room. But some monsters…

The front door creaked open.

She jerked slightly, only to freeze when Thane stepped in. His clothes were damp, plastered to his skin. His boots left muddy prints on the floor.

Their eyes met. Bright blue to icy azure and greens and browns before sliding away to fix on the wall beyond her head. There was shame? Trepidation?

“I’m going to have a bath,” he said simply, voice like gravel after hours of disuse. “I’ll be back.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers.

Moments later, Zel followed him in, hair dripping, shirt unbuttoned and clinging to his torso. He didn’t speak, either, just gave her a nod and ascended the stairs.

Then came Maro.

He didn’t say anything at all. He just stood near the foot of the stairs, stripping off his soaked jacket, those sharp eyes fixed on her like he was still assessing her for damage.

His gaze trailed her as she moved past him and headed up.

The hallway upstairs was dimly lit, creaky floorboards betraying her steps.

She paused at the threshold of Thane’s bedroom.

He had led her there to drop the overnight bag and to make sure she was alright before they went to the warehouse.

It was rustic with wooden wardrobes, a worn king-sized bed with iron posts, side tables stacked with old books and half-used candles.

The bathroom door was ajar.

Steam curled through the narrow slit, disappearing like ghostly fingers into the bedroom. The scent hit her before she even stepped inside—Thanes’s soap, cedar and spice and warmth, and beneath it, faint, persistent, the coppery tinge of blood.

She pushed the door open and stepped in.

He was already naked under the stream, the frosted glass blurring his outline, his broad shoulders, bowed head, water tracing down his back. The sound of it hitting the tiles echoed softly.

She peeled off her clothes one piece at a time, the cotton damp against her skin.

Then she slid the glass aside.

He was wrapped in his own thoughts, not really paying attention.

She stepped in, wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her cheek against the ridge of his spine. He startled, tensed like a coiled spring, then his hands flew to hers, gripping them tightly, locking her in place.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’m safe.”

She felt the exhale more than heard it.

Lately, they didn’t need many words.

He turned, still holding her hands in one of his. Then he pulled her forward, mouth descending on hers like he was starved. His tongue thrust deep, claiming, desperate, tasting every hidden crevice of her mouth as if trying to erase the memory of what could’ve been.

His hands slid down her slick sides, gripping her arse. In one motion, he lifted her, and she wrapped around him—arms, legs, all of her.

He braced her against the tiled wall, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other guiding himself between her thighs.

He slid in with no resistance.

They both sighed like they’d been holding their breath for days. For a long moment, they didn’t move, just held each other tight.

She stirred against him first, restless, needy.

And he responded. His rhythm was hard, desperate, hips driving into her like he needed to feel her down to the marrow of his bones. The steam thickened. The sounds of water and flesh slapping against flesh and soft gasps filled the room.

She clenched around him as he pulsed inside her, both coming too fast, too soon.

But it didn’t matter.

They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering, while the water washed everything else away.

When they finally finished bathing and brushed their teeth, they went back into the bedroom. They moved like magnets, still clinging to each other.

Thane’s arm never left her waist. His hand rested possessively at the small of her back, his thumb tracing lazy circles as though reassuring himself she was real, warm, alive.

Faolan pressed her face to his chest, her fingers fisting the fabric at his ribs, inhaling the scent of him—clean skin, soap, and Thane.

He kissed the top of her head.

Then, after a long moment, he muttered, “I don’t like the way Maro looks at you.”

Her lips quirked against his sternum. “That’s because Maro looks at everyone like he’s deciding whether they’re worth dissecting.”

Thane didn’t laugh. His hold just tightened. “I mean it. He wants you.”

She looked up, her chin grazing his chest. “You really think I’d look at anyone else?”

That earned her a long, weighted look. “No,” he admitted finally with a slightly crazed look in his eyes. “But I’d have to kill him if you did.”

Later, in the sanctuary of the bedroom, he dried her hair with a towel and then watched as she combed her hair with a wide toothed comb and applied moisturiser to her arms and legs.

He had mapped every new cut and bruise with a storm in his eyes, then carried her to the bed like she was precious and breakable.

He left for a few minutes and returned with a tray filled with tea, toast, scrambled eggs, a few strawberries, and a bar of chocolate.

They ate cross-legged on the bed, laughing quietly about how none of it made sense together but somehow worked. She nibbled the chocolate last, and he stole half from her fingers with his mouth.

When they were done, he took the tray away and returned without a word.

One hand reached for her, and she came willingly.

This time was different.

There was no frenzy, no desperation. Just heat and patience.

Thane kissed her slowly, his tongue teasing hers, coaxing her to open. His hands roamed, curious, reverent. He kissed her collarbone, her ribs, the tender space beneath her breast. She arched into him with a soft sigh.

His fingers traced every inch of her, mapping her as though afraid to forget. Then, when she was slick and aching for him, he slid a finger inside—slow, deep, unhurried.

He kissed her neck, murmuring things in a voice that was barely a whisper. When she relaxed against him, he let his fingers wander, one slipping lower to stroke the tight ring of muscle there. She stiffened, just a little, but he waited.

Waited until her hips rolled with need. Waited until she moaned and reached for him.

He slid the bold finger in, slowly, watching her face.

She gasped but didn’t push him away.

And when he felt her relax, he pressed into her again, this time with his cock, filling her with a slow glide as his finger continued its gentle rhythm behind.

Her inner muscles gripped him tight. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated with the black eating the blue, leaving a thin rim as her body trembled with sensation as pleasure crested again and again.

He held her through every wave, never breaking rhythm, whispering her name like a vow before joining her.

When they were spent, he kissed her shoulder and left briefly before returning with a warm, damp cloth to clean her carefully, his touch gentle.

Then he slipped under the covers and pulled her against his chest, wrapping himself around her like armour.