To ruin an Omega

Chapter 80: Under Running Water 1

FIA

I said nothing as Cian moved behind me.

The air shifted. I felt his presence at my back like a physical weight. The bathroom suddenly seemed smaller. The walls closer. The space between us thin enough to cut.

His fingers brushed the nape of my neck.

I stiffened.

“Relax,” he said quietly.

I tried. My shoulders would not cooperate. They stayed locked up tight like someone had bolted them in place.

The zipper made a soft sound as it came undone. Slow. Deliberate. The teeth separated one by one until the dress gaped open at my back.

His knuckles grazed my spine.

My skin prickled. Every nerve ending lit up like someone had run an electric current through them. I felt hyperaware of everything. The warmth of his hand. The roughness of his calluses. The way his breath stirred the fine hairs at the back of my neck.

“There,” he said.

His hand dropped away.

He took a step back. Then another. I heard fabric rustle behind me. Heard the quiet sound of his zipper. Heard clothes hitting the tile.

I kept my eyes forward. I stared at the white marble wall like it was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen.

My hands moved to my dress and I let it drop. It pooled around my feet in a stiff pile of blood-soaked fabric. I reached behind me for my bra clasp. My fingers fumbled with the hooks. They finally came loose and I let it fall.

My panties went next.

I stepped out of the pile of ruined clothing and moved toward the tub. My legs felt shaky. The floor felt too far away. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without falling.

The shower was massive. Glass walls. Multiple shower heads. Enough space that two people could stand in it without touching.

I stepped inside.

It was cold under my feet. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried not to think about the fact that I was completely naked. That Cian was about to follow me in here. That we were about to share this space with nothing between us but air and water and whatever self-control we could muster.

The glass door opened behind me.

I heard him step in. Heard the door close with a soft click.

I kept my back to him.

Water rushed from one of the shower heads. Warm. Not hot. Just warm enough to chase away the chill on my skin.

“Tilt your head back,” Cian said.

I did.

The water hit my hair first. It ran down my scalp and over my shoulders in rivulets that turned pink as they washed away the dried blood. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sensation of getting clean instead of the fact that Cian was close enough to touch me.

Something cold touched my scalp.

Soap.

His hands followed. Strong fingers worked through my hair. Massaging. Scrubbing. Getting rid of the blood and dirt and whatever else had gotten tangled in there during the fight.

The soap foamed. I felt bubbles sliding down the sides of my face and dripping off my chin.

“Turn around,” he said.

I turned.

My eyes stayed closed. It seemed safer that way. Less complicated. If I could not see him then maybe I could pretend this was normal. That having Cian wash me was something that happened every day.

A soft sound reached my ears.

I frowned. It almost sounded like…

Cian chuckled.

The sound was low. Quiet. But definitely amused.

I kept my eyes shut.

He continued washing. His hands moved to my face. Gentle. Careful around the bruises. The water followed. Rinsing away the soap and blood until my skin felt clean again.

Then he moved to my arms.

His grip was firm but not rough. He worked methodically. Like this was a task that required his full attention. I felt him scrub at my forearms. My wrists. Each finger individually until the dried blood flaked away.

I was tempted to open my eyes.

The temptation grew stronger with every passing second. Curiosity warred with common sense in my head. What was he doing? What did he look like right now? Was he as unaffected as he sounded?

I gave in.

My eyes opened slowly.

Cian was focused on my hand. His head was bent. His dark hair had gotten wet from the spray and it clung to his forehead in damp strands. Water and soap covered his chest and shoulders. The muscles in his arms flexed as he worked.

He looked up immediately then.

Our eyes met.

My breath caught.

He was looking at me. Really looking. Not the casual glance he usually gave me. Not the dismissive once-over. This was different. Intense. Like he was seeing something he had not noticed before.

I looked away quickly.

Too quickly.

My cheeks burned.

“Turn around,” he said again.

His voice sounded rougher than before. Like something had scraped it raw.

I turned.

Water hit my back. Warm. Steady. Then his hands followed with more soap. He worked in silence. His palms sliding over my shoulders. My spine. The space between my shoulder blades where Bo’s shard had broken skin.

I needed to say something. Anything. The silence was too heavy. Too charged.

“Did you retrieve Bo’s phone?”

The words came out strained.

“No.”

He paused. The water kept running but his hands stilled against my back.

“I was busy with you.”

Right.

Of course.

“It will be kept though,” he continued. “I am sure even if my uncle has more spies and double agents, they would be walking on eggshells at the moment.”

I turned to face him.

“But they could delete stuff off the phone.”

Cian shook his head.

“I have a competent team of technicians. Nothing would be hidden enough.”

Water dripped from his hair into his eyes. He blinked it away.

“Now just stay still and let me wash you.”

He raised the shower head and aimed it at my face.

I blinked rapidly. Water got in my eyes and up my nose and in my mouth. I sputtered and wiped at my face with one hand.

Then I saw it.

Blood.

On his chest. Just below his ribs. A dark streak that stood out against his skin.

I pointed.

“Look. You have blood too.”

He glanced down and shrugged.

“It is not important.”

“It is.”

I reached for the soap before I could think better of it. Lathered it up in my hands until they were covered in white foam. Then I pressed them against his chest.

His skin was warm under my palms.

I felt him tense.