Chapter 13: Drowning in You
The word hung in the air, heavier than the collar had been. Mine. It wasn’t a question. It was a brand.
Sadie went boneless in Rhett’s arms, the last aftershocks of her orgasm mingling with a deep, systemic tremble. Jace straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, watching them with a look that was both satisfied and strangely distant. The garage was silent except for the ragged symphony of their breathing.
Rhett’s kiss had been a punctuation mark. Now, he simply looked at her, his gaze scanning her face—the flushed skin, the bruised lips, the eyes struggling to focus. Without a word, he bent and hooked an arm behind her knees, lifting her against his chest. She was too wrecked to protest, her head lolling against his shoulder. The flannel shirt hung open, useless.
“Cleaning up,” Rhett stated, heading for the door to the house.
Jace just nodded, buckling his jeans. “I’ll lock up.”
The transition from the garage’s grim concrete to the dim warmth of the house hallway was jarring. Sadie blinked. The normalcy of a faded runner on the floor, a framed black-and-white photo of a vintage bike on the wall, felt like artifacts from another planet. Rhett carried her straight to the bathroom, setting her on her feet on the cold tile but keeping a firm grip on her elbow.
He turned on the shower, testing the water with his hand. Steam began to fog the mirror. Still silent, he peeled the flannel shirt from her shoulders. It fell with a soft, damp sound. He looked at her body, at the red marks from the rope, the sheen of sweat and other fluids. His jaw tightened.
“In,” he said, his voice gravel.
She stepped under the spray, hissing as the hot water hit the abrasions on her wrists and inner thighs. It stung, a sharp, clean pain. He followed her in, crowding the small stall. He wasn’t gentle. He took a bar of plain soap and began washing her. His large, calloused hands moved over her skin with a shocking, clinical thoroughness. He scrubbed her shoulders, her back, the curve of her ass. He soaped between her legs, his fingers parting her, rinsing away the physical evidence of Jace, of everything. She braced her hands against the tile wall, her forehead resting on her arms, letting him work. It felt less like intimacy and more like a ritual. A reclamation.
He turned her to face him, water sluicing down his chest, over the dark ink. He washed her breasts, her stomach. He tipped her head back and ran his soapy fingers through her hair, rinsing it clean. He said nothing. The only sounds were the spray of water and their breathing.
When he was finished, he shut off the water. He wrapped a thick towel around her, then one around his own waist. He led her, dripping, to his bedroom—a sparse room dominated by a large bed with a dark, rumpled comforter. He sat her on the edge and retrieved a tube of antiseptic ointment from a drawer.
This, finally, was different. His touch softened. He took her wrist, turning it to expose the raw rope burn. Carefully, he smoothed the cool ointment over the wound. He did the same for the other wrist, then for the tender skin at her throat where the collar had bitten. His head was bent, his focus absolute. In the quiet, Sadie felt something in her chest crack open.
“Why?” The word slipped out, raw and small.
He didn’t look up, his thumb circling ointment onto the inside of her thigh. “You needed it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He finished, capping the tube. He looked at her then, his eyes like a night without stars. “You walk through the world like you’re made of glass. Tough, but one wrong tap and you shatter. You needed to know you could break and someone would still be there to put you back together.”
Tears, hot and sudden, flooded her eyes. She hated them. She looked away, blinking furiously. “Jace…”
“Jace is a tool,” Rhett said, his voice flat. “A distraction. A way to get you out of your own head. He doesn’t get this.” His hand came up, his fingers not quite touching her wet cheek. “This is mine.”
He stood then, pulling on a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He left the room and returned with a worn, soft t-shirt. He pulled it over her head, guiding her arms through. It smelled like him. He pulled back the comforter. “Sleep.”
“Where are you going?”
“Garage. One minute.”
He left. The emptiness of the room was immense. She crawled under the covers, the fabric cool against her skin. The tremble was deeper now, in her bones. She heard the faint sound of the back door, voices—Rhett’s low murmur, Jace’s lighter reply. Then the door again, and silence.
Rhett returned. He slid into bed beside her, on top of the covers. He didn’t reach for her. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm bent behind his head.
The space between them was a vast, aching canyon. All the violence, the submission, the raw fucking—it had been easier than this quiet. This was the reality, and it was terrifying. She was adrift, hollowed out, and he was a silent monolith beside her.
After an eternity, she whispered into the dark, “I feel like I’ve been erased.”
He turned his head on the pillow. In the faint light from the window, she saw his profile. “Good.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. Now I can draw you back the way you should be. The way you are when you’re not pretending.”
“And how’s that?”
“Needy. Loud. Messy. Mine.”
The word again. It should have made her bristle. Instead, it pulled a shaky breath from her lungs. She moved. Not toward him, but shifting until her back was to him, curling into herself. An invitation, or a test.
She felt the bed dip. His body molded against her back, his chest to her shoulders, his legs bending behind hers. His arm came over her, his hand splayed possessively on her stomach under the shirt. His breath was warm against the nape of her neck.
“Sleep, Sadie.”
And held in the silent, unyielding cage of his body, for the first time in a long time, she finally did.