I push off the floor, my shirt stuck to my shoulder in a wet patch. There is a trail of water on the ground.
Do we have a leak somewhere? The rain isn’t even that bad outside. Shit, we’ll have to check all the rooms just in case, make sure none of the electronics got messed up.
“Stevie?”
I look up at Jackson and follow his line of sight.
Standing in the middle of our living room is a drenched brunette.
Stevie’s hair hangs in wet strands around her face, her white tank top and tennis skirt plastered to her skin. A battered bouquet of pink roses hangs from her left hand, soaking the floor. A clear bag of some sort of cookie is gripped in her right hand. Stevie’s face is twisted in anguish, and my body instantly reacts, her pain a signal to my own, activating protection mode.
I run to her, grabbing her face, searching her teary eyes. “Stevie, baby, what happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I run my hands down her body, checking for any injuries. Her knees are bruised, but she otherwise appears unharmed. I pull her into a crushing hug, her body soaking mine. “Stevie, it’s okay, you’re safe,” I murmur. She begins to sob, her body shaking against mine.
I’ve never seen her like this before. Never seen her cry. Never seen her so broken.
Jackson brings a towel over, and I wrap her in it.
“We need to get her out of these clothes and into a shower,” he says.
I nod at him.
“Stevie, come on. You’re going to catch a cold.” I put my arm around her and try to persuade her to walk, but she’s a blubbering mess.
“She’s saying she’s sorry.”
I turn to Parker. “What?”
“Stevie, that’s what she’s saying.” His expression is dead serious.
“How could you possibly know that?” Jackson asks. “She’s just crying.”
“Trust me.” Parker walks over to Stevie. “I’ve been around my sisters enough times when they’ve had their hearts broken to understand sobbing girl talk.”
He bends down to Stevie’s eye level, reaching inside the towel to grab the hand that is holding the drowned flowers. “Can I have the flowers, love?”
She shakes her head, mumbling something else. He nods like he understands what she is saying.
“Well, according to Aleks, the Aprilia is cursed, so what’s one more cursed object in my life?”
She releases the flowers into his hand, and when he asks for the cookies, she gives them up freely. He looks at me and nods. I scoop Stevie into my arms, towel and all, and carry her to my bathroom. I sit her on the counter so I can untie her shoes and remove her socks.
“Can you lift your arms for me, Stevie?”
She raises her arms, and I peel the soaked tank off her body, which is a lot harder than it looks. Her sobs have softened to hiccups at least.
“Alright, I’m going to need you to stand for just a second so I can get your skirt off, does that sound okay?”
She still doesn’t speak, just nods. I hold her around her ribs and lift her off the counter, onto the tiles. I don’t let go until I know she can stand on her own, then I kneel in front of her. I go to roll her skirt down and realize that her phone is tucked in the pocket of the built-in shorts. I tug it out, leaving it on the counter. I check the other pocket and pull out a zip-lock baggie. There’s a small thumb drive inside. She whimpers at the sight of it, so I quickly toss it onto the counter.
Once she is undressed, I get her into the steaming shower. I have all the jets on, plus the rain shower. I might be overdoing it, but I have no clue what I’m doing. I toe off my sneakers and go to undress when she begins sliding down the wall to the floor of the shower. Fuck it. I get in, the water drenching my jeans and silk button-down shirt. I sit next to her and pull her into my lap. Her skin is still so cold. I have no clue how long she was standing there, soaked to the bone.
I’m scared.
Completely terrified.
What the hell happened?
“Please, talk to me, little dove.”
She looks up at me, finally holding my gaze. I’m relieved and pained at the same time because all I see is deep despair flooding those salted-caramel eyes. Her crying has stopped, and she just looks dejected.
“I’m sorry, Blade.” She squeezes her palms to her eyes, curling more tightly in on herself. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
I don’t know what she is sorry for. A million different scenarios run through my mind, but I force myself to stop. There’s no point speculating, no point thinking the worst. It’s Stevie, my Stevie. My little dove. My goddess. My angel. No matter what happened, what destroyed her, we will get through it together. I don’t care if she murdered someone; I’ll help her hide the body. Hell, I’ll take the blame. Anything to stop her pain.
Nothing she could say would make me unlove her.
Because I do. I love Stephanie Andwell.
So, I wash her up, softly soaping her body, whispering words of comfort all the while. Reminding her how special she is, what she means to me, how much I adore her. I let her know that we will get through this together. I shampoo her hair, condition it, comb it until it runs silky smooth down her back. Her skin is flushed pink by the end of it, the entire bathroom coated in a layer of steam.
I get her out of the shower and dry her, inch by inch. I even apply her face moisturizer and twist her hair up in a towel. I leave her sitting on the bathmat while I peel off my wet clothes and go in search of new clothing for the both of us. I keep the bathroom door open so I can watch her as I open one of my drawers and pull out a pair of shorts and underwear for her. Stevie started keeping stuff here last weekend, saying that it was pointless to lug her stuff back and forth. I didn’t point out that she had left enough stuff at the apartment over the last three weeks that she basically had everything here already. I grab one of my sweatshirts, knowing she likes to wear them. I throw a pair of sweatpants on and bring the clothes into the bathroom.
“Can you lift your arms again?”
She shakes her head, then starts to push herself to stand. I hold onto her arm, helping her up. She peels the towel off her head, shaking her hair out. “I’ve got it, thank you.” Her voice is small.
She holds her arms out, and I give her the sweatshirt. She slips it on, and I hand her the rest of the clothes to put on. She turns to the mirror, staring at herself, touching her puffy eyes before dropping her head and sighing.
I gather her wet hair and pull it out from under the sweatshirt. “You look fine, babe.”
She snorts.
The sound relieves me. It’s the first emotion she’s shown other than sadness or dejection.
I feel her body stiffen. She raises her head, and her hand reaches out for the baggie with the thumb drive. She picks it up and stares at it, the plastic bag crumpling as she grips it harder. She turns to lock eyes with me, remorse written all over her face before she rests her head against my chest. I stroke her damp hair, giving her all the time she needs.
She sucks in a deep breath, her whole body lifting with the force of it, before blowing it out.
She looks at me one last time before straightening her shoulders and walking out of the bathroom.
Worry fills me again because the look she just gave me was that of someone headed into battle. Someone who doesn’t plan to make it back from the war.