Page 33 of Fragile Twisted Vows
“I have to get him…this…off me,” I mumble, scrubbing so hard at my skin, like I’m trying to wipe something deeper than the blood clean.
I’m trying to wipe the trauma clean.
And not just the trauma from what just happened.
The trauma of everything that’s ever happened to me.
It all hits me now, years of it slamming into me like a box truck.
“Lucille, stop. Get in the shower,” Damien commands but I shake my head at him.
“No, I have to get it off. Need to get all…of it,” I say through gritted teeth.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t growl or get angry or issue a command.
He just leans over me and turns off the sink. I let my eyes lift from the watery, red drain and meet his in the mirror. His gaze is both soft and intense, but not remorseful.
His hands go to the zipper on the back of my dress and slowly drags it down. I don’t tell him that I’m not wearing a bra. I don’t say anything. I’m frozen by his tentative touch.
When he slides the dress down to my hips, I inhale sharply. My breasts are on full display in the mirror, and even though he sees them, he pays no mind to them. He just slides the dress to the floor, leaving me only in my heels and black lace thong.
I wish I wasn’t covered in blood. I wish this was earlier in the restaurant bathroom. When I was needy for him, when I was throwing myself at him like an idiot.
Which is why I followed Bruno down to the basement anyways. To yell at Damien for making me feel stupid, to dismiss my want. To tell him it was a mistake and that I hate him.
He goes to his knees then, his large, rough hands running carefully down my thighs as he does. It’s intimate, but given the circumstance, the air doesn’t feel sexual or tense like earlier. It feels…intimate. A different kind. A kind of intimacy that holds attention and care and empathy. Three things that Damien is not capable of.
He unbuckles the straps of my heels and slides them off one by one until I’m barefoot on the bathroom floor. When his hands drag up and grasp my panties, he pauses.
I don’t say anything. I’m holding my breath until his fingers carefully slide my underwear from my hips to my ankles until he lifts my feet gently to step out of them.
When he stands, I meet his eyes in the mirror once more.
There’s a trace of lust there, a small trace as his tall, broad and beautiful body stands behind me. I’m naked from head to toe, covered in disgust in front of the man that’s keeping me here.
The man that’s going to be my husband.
He places his wallet, phone and finally, his gun on the sink and I swallow tightly, staring at the weapon that caused all of this.
Held by the man that did all of this.
My savior and my monster.
It’s all so fucked, isn’t it?
So, why am I allowing him to lift me? Why am I letting him carry my naked body into the shower?
Because as wounded as I am, I’m also a masochist.
A total sadist for liking this. For wanting him to cleanse me. For wanting him to wash it all away. The muck and the memories. Every bit of it.
He’s fully clothed when we step in, his clothes now saturated as he closes the shower door and traps us under the warm water. The glass is filled with steam and the air is thick around us. I’m pressed against his chest even though there’s ample space in the stall. His shirt skims my breast as he reaches around to grab a sponge and bottle of soap from the tiled shelf, lathering it before pressing it to my face.
He washes me carefully, attentively. He gently scrubs every inch of my face, turning and inspecting it until it appears that all of the blood is gone. Then, he rinses the sponge and lathers more soap on before turning and pressing it to my chest.
I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath again until he circles the sponge around my neck and down to my breast. He looks at my body the entire time he washes it, his eyes void of any emotion, but I swear I can see a bit of desire in there. And maybe a little…disappointment.
Finally, those eyes lift to mine.
