Chapter 6: Steam and Surrender
The cheap whiskey fumes still burned in Kate’s throat, warring with the rising steam. Her hand froze on the hoodie’s hem. The air crackled, thick with moisture and something far more dangerous than the scalding water hammering the tub. His silhouette, a solid shadow coalescing from the swirling vapor near the door, pinned her more effectively than any grip. How long? How long had he been watching her unravel in the mirror’s harsh light, tracing the bruise blooming on her neck?
"Thought you could wash me off, little moth?" His voice was a low rasp, slicing through the water’s roar, colder than the tile beneath her bare feet. It wasn’t a question. It was an indictment.
Before she could gasp, before she could even flinch, he moved. Not hurried, but with predatory certainty. Two strides closed the distance. His hand shot out, not towards her face, but towards the shower curtain. He yanked it aside violently, the plastic rings screeching in protest. The roar of water intensified, instantly soaking the sleeve of his dark shirt where he braced his arm against the tiled wall. Steam billowed out, engulfing them both.
He didn’t grab her. He pushed. One hand flat against her sternum, right over the faded print on her oversized hoodie. The force slammed her backwards. Her shoulder blades hit the fogged mirror with a dull thud that vibrated through her bones. The cold glass seeped through the damp fabric, a shocking counterpoint to the humid air. Condensation dripped down the surface beside her head.
He stepped into the tub fully, boots and all, ignoring the cascading water soaking his jeans instantly. He crowded her, his body a wall of heat and damp denim and leather scent cutting through the steam. The scalding spray hit his back, plastering his dark shirt to the scars and ink beneath, then ricocheted onto her face, her neck, stinging her eyes, mingling with the sweat already cooling on her skin. She gasped, turning her head away from the direct blast, blinking furiously.
His free hand came up, fingers rough against her jaw, forcing her face back towards him. His thumb pressed hard into the tender flesh just below the livid bite mark on her neck. Pain flared, sharp and bright. His eyes, dark pits reflecting the harsh fluorescent light above the sink, held hers. No trace of sleep remained. Only that unnerving, consuming focus.
"You scrub," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the water pounding his shoulders, dripping from his jaw onto her collarbone. His thumb stroked, almost thoughtfully, over the bruised skin. "You hide." His gaze dropped to the neckline of her hoodie, soaked and clinging. "You drink cheap bourbon." A flicker of something – disdain? Amusement? – crossed his face. "Like it erases the taste of me."
His head dipped. She braced for another bite, flinching instinctively. Instead, his tongue, hot and startlingly soft, traced the swollen ridge of teeth marks. A slow, deliberate lick from the curve of her shoulder up the column of her neck, following the bruise’s path. The intimacy was jarring, violating. Her breath hitched, trapped somewhere between revulsion and a treacherous, unwanted spark of sensation deep in her belly. His breath ghosted hot and damp over the wet skin.
"You think fate," he breathed against her pulse point, his lips brushing the abused flesh, "is something you rinse down the drain?" His hand slid from her jaw, down her throat, over the soaked fabric covering her collarbone. It didn't stop. It kept moving, down between her breasts, over her stomach, rough palm dragging the heavy, wet hoodie fabric with it. His fingers found the waistband of her panties, the only thing she wore beneath.
Kate stiffened, pressing harder against the cold mirror. "Jace—" The name was a choked plea, lost in the water’s roar.
His fingers hooked into the elastic. Not pulling yet. Just resting there, a claiming pressure against her lower belly. His other hand, still braced against the tile beside her head, flexed. Water streamed down his forearm, darkening the intricate ink.
"You don't wash away fate, little moth." His voice dropped lower, a vibration she felt more than heard, resonating through the hand pressed low on her body, slithering down into the tense space between her thighs. His eyes locked onto hers again, holding her captive more surely than any grip. The scalding water sheeted down around them, cocooning them in noise and steam and unbearable heat. "You drown in it."
His fingers tightened in the waistband. His gaze didn't waver. The promise, the threat, hung suspended in the steam-choked air, heavier than the water soaking them both. The cold mirror bit into her back. The hot spray stung her skin. And the pressure low on her belly, the dark certainty in his eyes, promised only submersion. Obliteration. A drowning far deeper than water.
The cold mirror bit into Kate’s spine, a stark counterpoint to the scalding water sluicing over Jace’s shoulders onto her face. His fingers hooked deep in the waistband of her panties, that claiming pressure low on her belly anchoring her against the glass. Steam choked the air, thick with the scent of wet cotton, cheap perfume, and something darker, primal. A drowning far deeper than water.
The whiskey buzz, a dull thrum beneath the panic, finally surged. It blurred the edges of the steam, made Jace’s intense gaze swim slightly. Her limbs felt heavy, disconnected, like they belonged to someone else. Numbness spread from her fingertips, a false calm descending through the haze.
"Just..." The word slurred out, thick on her tongue. She pushed against his chest, a weak shove against solid muscle soaked through. "Just wanna lay a girl, huh?" Her voice was louder than intended, raw-edged, echoing strangely off the tiles. "That it?" Her fingers, clumsy with drink, scrabbled against the wet fabric of his shirt. Finding purchase, she gripped handfuls, nails digging hard into the scars and ink she knew lay beneath. "Easy mark? Drunk girl in her bathroom?"
Jace didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark pits reflecting the fractured light, held hers. A muscle ticked high in his jaw. The scalding water sheeted down his face, plastering dark strands to his temples. He leaned in, his breath hot and damp against her ear, cutting through the roar of the shower.
"Is that what you think?" His voice was a low rasp, vibrating against her skin. Dangerously calm. His hand, still hooked in her panties, didn’t move. "That this," his other hand came up, rough fingers tracing the fresh bruise on her neck, then sliding down to cup her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze, "is about something so fucking simple?"
Kate’s vision swam. The numbness warred with the sharp sting of his grip, the ache in her neck, the terrifying intensity radiating off him. She clung tighter, her nails biting deeper, anchoring herself against the dizzying spin of the room and the terrifying depth in his eyes. The accusation hung between them, cheap and flimsy against the suffocating weight of his presence.
He laughed then, a short, harsh sound swallowed instantly by the water. "You think cheap bourbon and hot water washes me away?" His thumb brushed roughly over her bottom lip. "Washes this away?" His gaze dropped pointedly to where his fingers disappeared into the elastic at her hip. "You think fate," he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that slithered down her spine, "gives a single fuck about your buzz, little moth?"
His free hand moved from her jaw, sliding down her throat, over the soaked hoodie clinging to her chest. It didn’t stop. Rough fingers traced the curve of her breast through the drenched fabric, a deliberate, claiming stroke that sent a jolt through her whiskey-numbed system. Her breath hitched, a ragged gasp lost in the steam.
"You drown," he murmured, his lips grazing her temple now, his hand continuing its slow, possessive descent over her ribs, her stomach, stopping just above where his other hand held her trapped. "Or you burn." His eyes locked onto hers again, holding her suspended in the scalding downpour. "But you don’t get washed clean. Not from me." His fingers tightened on her hip, pulling her fractionally forward off the cold glass, towards the heat of his body, towards the precipice his words carved in the steam-filled air. The choice, if it ever existed, evaporated like condensation on the mirror. Only the drowning remained.
The cold mirror bit into her spine, a stark ache against the steam and scalding spray. Jace’s fingers were anchors in the elastic of her panties, his body a furnace blocking escape. Only the drowning remained.
Her whiskey-fueled numbness shattered. "You didn't deny it!" The accusation ripped out, raw and ragged, echoing off the slick tiles. Rage, hot and sudden, flared through the booze haze, burning away the false calm.
She shoved harder at his soaked chest, a futile push against solid muscle. Then her hands flew up, fingers twisting into claws. She raked them down his neck, over the scars and ink she knew lay beneath the plastered shirt fabric, aiming for the sharp line of his jaw. "You didn't fucking deny it, Jace! Just want an easy drunk girl?"
Her nails caught skin, scraping hard. A thin, red line bloomed instantly above his collarbone.
He didn’t roar. Didn’t flinch back. His reaction was terrifyingly contained. His free hand shot up, iron-hard fingers closing around both her wrists in one brutal motion. He slammed her pinned hands back against the fogged mirror above her head. The impact cracked the glass, a sharp, splintering sound swallowed by the water’s roar. Her knuckles stung.
"Easy?" His voice was a low growl, vibrating with a fury colder than the tile. Water streamed down his face, plastering dark hair to his temples, dripping from his clenched jaw onto her forehead. He leaned in, his nose almost touching hers, the heat of his breath scalding. "You think this," he jerked her trapped wrists, making the cracked glass creak, "is easy? Think I need to chase drunks?" His eyes, black holes in the steam, held pure, dangerous incredulity. "Christ, Kate. You’re drowning alright. Drowning in your own bullshit."
He yanked her wrists down, not releasing them, forcing her arms awkwardly to her sides. His other hand, still hooked deep in her panties, tightened, pulling her hips sharply forward off the glass, flush against the soaked denim covering his thighs. The rough drag of the wet fabric against her bare skin was jarring.
"What I want," he hissed, his lips brushing her ear, the words slicing through the downpour, "isn't an easy lay." His grip on her wrists was crushing. "What I want..." He paused, the silence thick with the hammer of water and her own ragged breathing. "...is you. Marked. Known. Mine." His tongue traced the shell of her ear, a slow, deliberate claiming. "Not washed away. Not forgotten." His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below. "Owned."
He released her wrists suddenly. Before she could react, before she could even slump, his hand that had been at her hip moved. It slid under her soaked hoodie, rough palm scraping over her bare stomach, fingers splaying possessively across her ribs. He yanked her even harder against him.
"See this?" he murmured, his lips trailing down her wet neck to the bruise he’d made earlier. He pressed his mouth against the tender, purple mark, not biting, but sealing it with heat and pressure. "This is just the start. The real bruise," he breathed against her skin, his hand tightening on her ribs, fingers digging in, "goes deeper. Right here." He pushed his hand higher, his thumb finding the frantic beat of her heart beneath her breast. "That's what you don't wash away."
He finally pulled back, just an inch, leaving her gasping against the mirror, his hand still a brand over her heart inside her hoodie, the other still holding the waistband of her panties like a leash. His eyes scanned her face – the panic, the confusion, the unwanted flare of response warring with terror.
Without a word, he stepped back completely, releasing her. He moved with deliberate slowness, ignoring the water still pounding down. He reached for the hem of his own soaked black shirt. With one hand, he grabbed the back of the collar and hauled it up and over his head in a single, powerful motion.
The water sluiced over bare skin, over the intricate, dark ink snaking across his shoulders and down his arms, over the pale, knotted scars – old wounds telling silent, violent stories. He dropped the heavy, wet shirt onto the bathroom floor with a sodden slap.
Kate sank lower against the mirror, legs trembling violently, her soaked hoodie plastered to her skin, the ghost of his handprint burning over her ribs, over her heart. The steam swirled around him, a dark god in the downpour, studying his prey. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by water hitting tile and the frantic drumming trapped inside her own chest. The bruise on her neck throbbed. The one he promised was deeper? It already felt like it was spreading, dark and permanent, right where he’d pressed his hand.
The bruise on her neck throbbed in time with her frantic pulse. The deeper one, the one he’d promised? It already felt like it was spreading, dark and permanent, right where he’d pressed his hand. Kate slid down the fogged mirror, legs buckling, hitting the wet tile floor hard. Water sluiced over her hunched shoulders, plastering the oversized hoodie to her skin like a second, suffocating layer. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently despite the scalding spray.
Jace stood over her, water sheeting off his bare torso. Ink writhed across scarred muscle in the flickering light. He watched her crumple, his expression unreadable, carved from stone and shadow. Steam curled around him like smoke from an altar. The silence stretched, thick with the roar of water and the ragged hitch of Kate’s breathing. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. Just observed.
“Get up.” His voice cut through the din, flat, devoid of the earlier fury. An order, not a request.
Kate shook her head, pressing her forehead against her knees. The cheap whiskey churned sourly in her gut. “Can’t.” The word was muffled, swallowed by wet fabric and despair. “Just… leave me alone.” It sounded pathetic, even to her own ears. A plea from someone already drowning.
He didn’t leave. He crouched instead, bringing his face level with hers. Water dripped from his jaw onto her soaked hair. The proximity was suffocating. His scent – leather, ozone, something metallic – cut through the steam. His eyes, dark and fathomless, scanned her face: the tear tracks mingling with shower water, the tremor in her lips, the raw fear warring with exhaustion. He reached out, not to touch her face, but to grip the soaked hoodie fabric bunched at her shoulder.
“You don’t get to drown alone, little moth.” His thumb rubbed slowly over the wet cotton, a strangely gentle motion at odds with the tension coiling in him. “Not after you flew into my flame.” His gaze dropped pointedly to the bruise visible above the hoodie’s collar. “You’re marked. You don’t scrub that off. You live in it.”
Kate flinched. “Stop saying that.” Her voice cracked. “Just… stop.” She tried to pull away, but his grip on her shoulder tightened, anchoring her. His other hand moved. Not towards her face, but lower. Rough fingers traced the soaked hem of the hoodie where it met her thigh. The touch burned through the fabric. She froze, breath catching.
“This,” he murmured, his fingers sliding beneath the heavy, wet hem, finding the bare skin of her hip just above the waistband of her panties. His touch was startlingly hot against her chilled skin. “This hiding place?” His eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive. “It’s pathetic.” His fingers curled, digging slightly into the flesh above her hip bone. Possessive. Claiming. “You think this fucking rag protects you? From me? From what you feel?”
Panic flared, sharp and bright, cutting through the numbness. She shoved at his chest, a desperate, weak push. “Get off!” Her nails scraped uselessly over wet skin and ink. “Just get the fuck off me!”
He didn’t budge. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The gentleness vanished, replaced by that terrifying, focused intensity. His hand under the hoodie slid higher, rough palm scraping over her ribs, fingers splaying wide across her bare stomach. The intimacy was jarring, violating the thin barrier of the soaked cotton still covering her upper body. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.
“Protection’s an illusion, Kate.” His voice was a low rasp, vibrating against her skin. “Like washing me away.” His fingers tightened on her ribs, pulling her slightly towards him. “Like thinking cheap bourbon makes you brave.” His other hand, still gripping her shoulder, shifted. It slid down her arm, rough fingers closing around the soaked sleeve cuff near her wrist. He held her gaze, the dark promise in his eyes absolute. “Time to burn the illusion.”
With a sudden, brutal jerk, he yanked her arm sideways, pulling her partially upright. Simultaneously, the hand under her hoodie clenched into a fist, grabbing a massive handful of the drenched fabric covering her ribs. Kate gasped, a sound of pure shock ripped from her throat. Before she could process, before she could even scream, he wrenched both hands apart with terrifying force.
HE RIPS THE FABRIC.
The sound was obscene – a wet, tearing shriek that cut through the water’s roar. The thick, soaked cotton of the hoodie parted like rotten parchment from collar to hem down her left side. Cold air hit newly exposed skin – her ribs, her stomach, the curve of her breast barely covered by her damp, plain bra. Shredded fabric hung from his fists. Kate stared, frozen in disbelief, her mouth open in a silent scream. The sudden exposure was violent, shocking. Water pounded directly onto her bare skin.
Jace dropped the ragged pieces. They landed on the wet tile with a sodden slap. He didn’t look at the ruined garment. His gaze raked over the skin he’d exposed – the pale expanse of her ribs, the faint tracery of old scars he hadn’t seen before, the frantic rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin bra, the intricate tattooed portraits on her thighs. Possession burned in his eyes, hotter than the shower spray. He reached out again, not for the remaining shreds of fabric, but to trace a single, rough fingertip along the newly revealed line of her collarbone. His voice, when it came, was thick, dark with satisfaction.
“There you are.”
The ripped shreds of Kate’s hoodie lay on the wet tile like discarded skin. Water sheeted over her newly exposed ribs, stomach, the plain damp bra. Jace’s fingertip traced her collarbone, rough, claiming. "There you are."
Cold air hit the wet skin his touch left behind. Shock held her rigid, pinned against the cracked mirror by the sheer force of his gaze raking over her. His eyes, dark and burning, lingered on the intricate, colorful portraits inked high on her thighs – the art she’d poured her failed dreams into, now exposed like everything else. Possession hardened his face, a mask carved from shadow and steam. He leaned in, the heat of him overwhelming the shower’s scalding spray.
"You don't hide from me," he rasped, his breath hot on her wet cheek. His hand moved from her collarbone, sliding down her bare, slick arm, fingers closing possessively around her bicep. "Not in this." His other hand came up, knuckles brushing the livid bruise on her neck, making her flinch. "Not ever."
Before she could twist away, before the scream building in her throat could escape, he shifted. His grip on her arm tightened, anchoring her. His free hand swept sideways in a brutal, contemptuous arc, not towards her, but towards the sink ledge.
It connected with the half-empty whiskey bottle she’d left there.
Glass exploded.
A violent, shattering percussion ripped through the steam-filled roar of the shower. Jagged shards flew, glittering like malicious stars in the fluorescent glare. Kate cried out, instinctively throwing her free arm up to shield her face, feeling sharp stings on her forearm, her shoulder. The bottle’s neck spun crazily across the floor, brown liquid mingling instantly with the swirling water, the sharp tang of bourbon cutting through the damp air.
Jace didn’t flinch. A sliver of glass had caught the back of his sweeping hand, a thin line of crimson welling instantly, diluted pink by the downpour. He barely glanced at it. His focus remained utterly fixed on her, his grip on her arm like iron, pulling her stumbling forward off her knees, away from the worst of the glittering debris near the wall.
His body slammed her back again. Not against the cracked mirror this time, but against the cold, wet tiles beside it. His forearm pressed across her collarbone, pinning her. Shards of glass crunched sickeningly under his boot as he stepped closer, crowding her. His bleeding hand came up, fingers slick with water and blood, tangling roughly in her wet hair, tilting her face up to meet his. Rainwater and tiny glistening fragments dotted his bare shoulders, his chest.
"See?" His voice was low, guttural, vibrating with intensity. Water streamed down his face, plastering dark strands across his forehead. The cut on his hand dripped crimson onto the tile near her bare foot. "Fragile." His gaze locked onto hers, demanding she understand. "Like you. Like this whole fucking illusion you wrap yourself in." He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear, his breath scalding. "Hiding doesn't make you safe. It just makes the breaking louder."
His hand in her hair tightened, tilting her head back further, exposing the bruised column of her throat completely to the pounding water and his scrutiny. His bleeding thumb stroked roughly over the bite mark. Kate trembled, pinned between cold tile and his heat, the sting of glass nicks on her skin a sharp counterpoint to the deep ache blooming inside. The faintest trickle of blood, thin and diluted, ran from a nick on her shoulder, tracing a path down her wet skin towards the ruined edge of her bra. His eyes tracked its slow descent.
"Hold still," he commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. His gaze lifted from the blood trail back to her eyes, holding her trapped. The roar of the water, the scent of cheap whiskey and iron, the cold glass underfoot, the heat of him pressing closer – it coalesced into a single, suffocating point of focus. He didn't move to wipe the blood away. He watched it. Waiting. Owning the wound, the moment, the breaking.