Page 43 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)
T he car ride is quiet, giving me time to think about what just happened. He hasn’t brought up my text. I glance at Cal. His jaw clenches, knuckles white on the steering wheel, but he must sense my eyes on him. A hand slips onto my thigh and squeezes once, twice.
A flutter erupts in my lower belly, and I squirm in my seat. He still doesn’t pull his gaze from the road, but his lips curl into a knowing smile.
When we’re almost home, I finally break the silence, opting to deflect back to him. “So, are we going to talk about how you were shot?”
Cal lets loose a light sigh, rolling his shoulder. He barely even flinches with the movement, and I take it he’s going to be fine.
“A slight misunderstanding.”
Misunderstanding . Laughter bubbles in my chest and spills into the car. Cal finally glances over at me, a twinkle of humor sparkling his brown eyes.
“Misunderstandings usually comprise of running late to a dinner reservation, not getting shot.”
“I wasn’t shot . It’s just a graze.”
My eyes roll with false annoyance. The fact that he’s sitting here with me, that I’m alive, that Alice is alive…Well, it just feels like things are finally starting to work out. I can only pray we’ll find Mason, too.
Cal’s phone rings. He winces as he shifts to pull it from his back pocket.
“Yeah?” His gaze slices to mine. “What?”
My brows furrow. His eyes widen, and a curse falls under his breath. “You sure?” he asks whoever is on the phone.
They answer, a muffled response I can’t make out. Then his head drops. He ends the call and turns his attention back to the drive.
Something instinctive inside me recoils, knowing what he’s about to say is going to rock me. I brace myself, fingers curling around the seatbelt as I wait with a knot lodged in my throat.
“Agapov…his body wasn’t in the room. He’s gone.”
No. No, that can’t be possible. There was so much blood—too much blood.
Cal must read the panic on my face. His hand finds mine, and he laces his fingers through one trembling hand, but it barely curbs the walls from pressing in on me.
Once again, the memory of his touch burns like acid on my skin.
I rip my hand from Cal’s, swiping them over my body, my legs.
Time slows to a crawl as the city lights blur together.
My breath comes in short, hollow inhales, and it’s not until Cal’s arms slide under my legs that I realize we’re home.
He lifts me out of the seat, cradling my trembling body to his chest as he walks me through the residence. I want to argue, to push him toward Doc to get his wound taken care of, but I can’t speak.
All the way to our room, he carries me. When we reach our rooms, someone has already lit the fireplace.
He passes straight through to sit me on the couch, heading into the bathroom.
The shower turns on, and then Callahan returns to me.
I can feel my feet again, so I stand, just as Cal slips his hand into mine.
His dark brown eyes flicker over my face.
He nods, gently pulling me into the bathroom.
Steam envelopes my body, and I fight to surface from the panic.
Cal carefully undresses me, with a quiet “up” as he taps my arms to drag my dress off.
It’s not until scorching water blisters my skin that I jolt back into the present.
Cal has ditched his own clothes and drags us into the shower.
His hands graze my body with a gentle foaming soap, washing the dirt, blood, and filth from my skin with careful motions.
His touch isn’t sexual, he isn’t seeking to turn me on.
He’s taking care of me. It’s gentle and instinctive, the way he lifts my arms to scrub my body, his hands barely skimming my breasts, the dip of my waist. He guides me to sit on the bench and kneels, washing my legs and feet where the worst of the filth lies.
Somewhere amid the tussle, I lost my slides, and my feet are grimy and black.
Cal takes his time to wash each foot, cleaning between my toes as reverently as he can.
It’s a sight to behold, the most powerful man in Roswell on his knees before me, washing the dirt from my skin.
When he’s finished, he lifts my right foot and places the softest kiss to the top of it.
My tongue seems to be glued to the roof of my mouth, so instead of thanking him verbally, I pump soap into my hands and return the favor.
His eyes flutter shut as I massage the shampoo into his scalp.
When it’s all clean, I tilt his head back to rinse the suds from his hair, then repeat with his conditioner.
The quiet isn’t tense; instead, it feels like safety.
To be so trusting of the person you’re with that no words are necessary.
There’s an unspoken understanding that it’s not sexual.
Cal is taking care of me, and I’m doing the same. That’s it.
When I’m finished, Cal stands, and the glorious sight of soapy suds slipping over his toned frame stuns me.
The blood has washed away from the wound on his arm, and I eye it nervously, but Cal stops the turn of my head with a gentle press on my chin.
When I meet his gaze, his brown eyes soften, and butterflies take flight in my belly once more.
This time, though, they’re full of tender appreciation more than anything.
Cal pumps shampoo into his hands and massages my scalp.
The suds percolate in my ears, and my eyes close on instinct, my head falling into his hold.
There’s a faint cherry scent and I smile.
He used my soap. A gentle rain clears the shampoo, and I smile softly as he works the conditioner into my hair.
After another rinse, he pulls me to my feet and into his arms. His lips press tenderly to mine, stitching more than just our injuries together. After narrowly escaping horrific fates, somehow we found each other. Again.
Cal tips his forehead against mine. The warm water falls over our shoulders, our bodies, and when he speaks, his tone seeps with disbelief.
“You love me?”
I’d been expecting it. Somewhere between him instinctively knowing I needed his touch back in the parking garage, to carrying me from the car and taking care of me in the shower, I knew it was the right call to send the text.
I sent it, thinking I wouldn’t make it out of that hotel room.
And yet here we are, holding on to each other in our bathroom, breathing life into the other with each exhale.
I look into his eyes, unable to gather the courage to say them aloud. I know it’s silly, but a part of me—the part of me that still mourns for our lost love—needs him to say it first. I need Cal to open that door, to let me in. Once and for all.
He smiles, reading the truth behind my silence.
Water slides over his skin, darkening his brown hair and dripping over the tip of his nose.
He laughs, a quick, triumphant laugh, before “thank fuck” falls from his lips, and he slams his mouth onto mine, kissing me like I’m the air the keeps him alive.
Teeth clack, tongues dance, fingers slide to hold my face to his, and I wrap a leg around his hip.
His wide palm slides down my neck, my collarbone, and settles on my breast. Squeezing once, twice, he groans into my mouth as he flicks my nipple. Callahan swallows each moan as he winds me up with barely a touch.
It’s like he remembers, just as I do. Our bodies meld together with the touch of a long-forgotten lover, but with the added passion of escaping near death.
We kiss like that for several breaths. Then he pulls his face from mine, though it looks like it pains him to do so.
The shower has chilled, and he turns it off before handing me a fluffy towel from the heating rack.
The warm cotton envelopes my body, and I almost moan.
I must not be completely successful in my attempt to smother it, because the look Cal shoots me could scorch the earth.
We towel off, and I try to dry my hair as best I can without pulling out the blow-dryer.
I don’t want to lose any more time with him tonight.
While I work on taming my hair, Cal applies ointment and a bandage to his bicep.
When we’re finished, he drops his towel on the floor and leads me by my hand toward the bed, bypassing the closet entirely.
He smirks, pulling back the comforter and falling onto the mattress.
He tugs me on top of him. The air is chilly, but he pulls the comforter over us, providing instant warmth.
Our legs tangle together, and I press my face to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under my cheek.
Cal brushes a feather-light touch over my arm, swirling nonsensical patterns into my skin.
Goosebumps erupt over my exposed skin. He gathers me close, his breath washing over my face as I burrow into his hold.
When he speaks, his voice is low, and his heartbeat pounds under my cheek.
“Ren, everything I’ve done in this life has been to get back to you.
When my father died, I knew it was selfish, and I knew it was dangerous, but I couldn’t keep myself from you any longer.
You no longer lived at the Bianchi estate, and I sat with whether I could keep you safe for months.
Since we’ve been married, each time your life has been at stake has been like a knife to the chest. But every morning when I see your surly face made brighter by a coffee that’s more cream than coffee, or when you have a productive day of writing, or how Darla never once forgets your aversion to cheese…
It’s like the perfect balm on my soul that whispers I was justified in bringing you closer to danger, just so I can have you again. ”