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.
