"I didn't come only for a story," I whisper. "I've been haunted by you for twelve years. I wanted you to be a lie. I wanted to be free of you. I thought answers would give me peace." I say again, slow and deliberate.
His hand lifts, then stops. The pause is a thunderbolt. For Zeb, not touching me is as loud as a shout. He looks at the fire. When he speaks, his voice is a flat stone.
"Peace does not live up here."
"Maybe not," I say. "But truth does."
He looks at me again, and something in his eyes loosens. Not much. Just enough for me to see the man under the soldier. There is grief there. It swims close to the surface, then disappears like a fish that has learned not to trust the light.
"I saw the photos," I say. "The folder. I suppose some would call it obsession. I should throw it in the fire and call you a monster, but I can't. You didn't stalk a stranger. You watched a ghost you thought you lost. I don't know how normal that is," I say looking at him with a smile, "and I'm not pretending it is. But I think I understand it. Truth be told, I'm not sure I haven't been doing the same thing."
His jaw tightens, and for a heartbeat I think I may have tipped us back into anger and violence. Then he stands, crossesthe room, and returns with a basin and a folded cloth. He kneels by the hearth and pours water. The sound is small and clean. He brings the basin to the edge of the couch and looks at me.
I nod.
The basin settles on the trunk. He reaches for the hem of the flannel I stole, fingers sliding under the fabric. The air leaves my lungs in a stutter. He doesn't rush. The shirt peels up an inch at a time, eyes on my face, watching for any tremor that means stop. I release the blanket. The cloth slides over my ribs and clears my breasts. My skin tightens in the cool air. The only sound is the low pop of the fire.
The cloth dips into the water, wringing out with a soft twist. He lifts it to my throat—warm, careful. He cleans the marks the leather left on my wrists, lifts my hair out of the way, not possessive, only practical. Water trails over my chest and down my sternum, his hand following with deliberate slowness. He wipes my shoulder, the center of my collarbone, the rise of each breast, stopping just before the peaks. The restraint winds me tighter than any rope.
"You can touch me," I whisper, then heat races into my cheeks. "I want you to."
His breath leaves him in a long line. "I know."
He does not give in. He moves the cloth again, a path that borders and refuses. The ache that follows is relentless. He cleans the hollow of my throat. He slides lower to my stomach. He pauses there, patient, and looks up.
"Tell me," he says. "Tell me yes."
"Yes."
The cloth slips downward. I ease back and open my knees. The room dims around the edges as he tends to me. His touch is careful. He does not tease. He does not push. He simply takes care of me, and a hot rush loosens inside me that feels like tearsI cannot shed. I hold myself very still and let it happen. I am shaking by the time he is done.
The cloth rinses clean, then trails water over my thighs, down one leg, then the other, over my calves and ankles. From the floor, his eyes meet mine again. There is no victory in him. There is only focus. The same kind of focus I knew he had to have when he faced down two men with a knife and bare hands.
"You don't scare me anymore," I say, and my voice doesn't waver. "Not the way you think."
He leans back on his heels and studies me. "What way do you think I think?"
"I think others think it's the kind of fear that keeps a woman small." I shake my head. "I am not small here. I hate that. I love that. I am both at once, and I do not know what to do with it."
A ghost of a smile races across his face. "You don't need to decide tonight."
He rises with the basin and carries it to the sink. He empties it and sets it aside to dry. He returns to me and reaches for the flannel. I catch his wrist.
"Leave it," I say.
His gaze dips. He nods. He tucks the blanket around my shoulders again, a careful wrap that feels like a vow. He sits, elbows on his knees, face turned to the fire. We don't speak for a long time. We listen to the storm press its weight into the logs and the roof. The cabin gives a low complaint and then holds. My heart learns the rhythm of the wind and begins to match it.
"You weren't born a beast," I say finally. "Something made you. Something broke you in a way that made you believe you had to live alone."
He stares into the flames as if they could answer for him. "I told you some of it."
"Tell me the part that hurts."
He is a statue for three breaths. Then he starts to talk. He doesn't dress it up. He doesn't dramatize or make himself out to be a victim. He gives me simple pieces. The handler who traded his team for influence. The day an extraction never came. The way Brenner looked at him and chose to walk away. The way the snow filled the mouths of the men he tried to drag to cover.
His voice frays on the part where he says, "I failed those men. A part of me, the honorable man, died with them. By the time I made it back, I'd been erased. Suited me just fine."
He doesn't shed a single tear. He doesn't break. He sits in the light of his fire and gives me the map of a wounded soul that never healed.
