He cradles my head in his hand and asks if I want a towel to support my neck.
“Yes, please.”
I’ve never spoken two more difficult words. My self-consciousness is searing.
He places a rolled-up hand towel under my neck. Then he dips the pitcher into the bathwater and tips it over my head, massaging my scalp as the warm water runs through my hair.
It feels so good, I almost groan aloud in pleasure. But that’s nothing compared to the bliss I experience when he works shampoo through my hair with both his hands.
His fingers are strong and gentle. He takes his time, making circles with his thumbs at my temples, stroking under the back of my head and neck, lightly squeezing the muscles at the base of my skull as he lathers my hair.
I spend a brief moment worried I might be drooling, but quickly surrender to the loveliness of it, the overwhelming luxury of the sensation. After less than a full minute, I feel drunk. Exhaling, I drop my arms from my chest and let my hands float by my hips in the water.
Mal starts to talk to me.
The pace unhurried and the tone low, he speaks in Russian. It sounds like he’s telling a story or explaining something important. I know it’s on purpose, that he’s deliberately not speaking English so I won’t understand, but somehow it doesn’t bother me.
He continues to speak as he rinses my hair. The water splashing into the metal tub sounds like rain on a rooftop. He speaks as he dips a bar of soap and a washcloth into the water. Speaks as he gently washes my arms, armpits, chest, and neck.
By the time he’s washing my feet, kneading my soles with those strong fingers, I’m in a stupor. My head lolls sideways. My eyes are closed. My breaths are slow and deep.
And still, he’s talking.
I don’t ask what he’s saying. I don’t want to break the spell.
He has to prop me up to wash my back. I sag against his arm, my chin hanging over his bent elbow. I feel boneless. Gelatinous. Like he could bend me into a pretzel, and it wouldn’t hurt.
When he’s finished washing and rinsing my body, he runs the washcloth over my face and behind my ears.
“Open your eyes, little bird,” he murmurs in English.
My lids drift open. His face is inches away. His expression is tortured.
My voice faint because it’s coming from outer space, I say, “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t explain. “I’m going to lift you out of the water. Do you think you can stand up?”
I consider it, then nod. “Not for long, though.”
He lifts me from the tub and sets me on my feet on the bath mat, keeping a steadying hand on my hip as he reaches for a towel. Working fast, he dries me off with gentle, clinical efficiency, then wraps the towel around my body and picks me up again.
I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes as he brings me back to bed.
When he’s got me arranged comfortably on the mattress, he opens the towel enough to change the dressing on my wound, leaving my breasts and panties covered.
I watch him work, wondering why he’s doing any of this.
“Mal?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
That stops him cold. He glances up at me, his eyes dark, his brows drawn together. Storm clouds gather over his head.
“Don’t thank me.”
“Why not?”
“You were shot because of me.”
“I’m alive because of you.”
His lips thin. He closes his eyes, exhales a short, aggravated breath through his nostrils, then opens his eyes again and glares at me.
“No. I’m alive because of you. Because you took a bullet meant for me. Don’t get it confused in your head. And don’t thank me.”
Glowering, he goes back to work.
“Am I allowed to thank you for taking away the big scary moose?”
When he glances up at me, eyes flashing, I say, “I mean elk.”
“Be. Quiet.”
I whisper, “Because I really hated that thing.”
He mutters something in Russian that doesn’t sound nice then finishes changing the bandage on my belly. He uses medical tape to make it stick. Rising, he goes to the closet and returns with a black Henley identical to the one he’s wearing.
He helps me sit upright and gets me into the shirt.
It’s huge, comfy, and smells like him. I might never take it off.
“Lie back.”
I do as he commands, watching his face as he pulls the shirt down over my hips, then removes the towel from around me, pulling it out from under my body. When that’s done, he says, “Panties on or off?”