Chapter 5: Blood and Bathwater
The new place wasn’t a bunker. It was a low-slung, concrete-block motel on the forgotten edge of a town that was barely a scratch on the map. Room 11 smelled of decades of cigarette smoke and cheap floral disinfectant, the scent baked into the orange nylon curtains. The ‘big garage’ Dom had promised was a corroded carport with a sagging roof, currently occupied by the hulking, dust-covered shape of the Charger.
But it had a tub.
Zara stood in the bathroom’s yellowed light, watching the water rumble from the tap. It was the color of weak tea, smelled faintly of rust, but it was hot. The drive had been eight hours of silence and bleached-out desert, her body cramping, the baby a solid, restless weight. Every pothole had sent a jolt through her spine. Dom had driven with a predatory focus, his eyes constantly scanning the mirrors, his hand never far from the console where the Glock rested.
She shed the oversized shirt and slid into the water. It wasn’t deep, the porcelain stained and chipped, but the heat was a benediction. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, her head resting against the curved back of the tub, and closed her eyes. For a minute, there was only the drip of the faucet and the distant hum of a neon sign.
The bathroom door creaked open.
She didn’t open her eyes. She knew the shape of him in the doorway, the way his presence displaced the air. She heard him move, his boots soft on the peeling linoleum.
He knelt beside the tub. The denim of his jeans was dusty. She opened her eyes to slits. He was looking at her, his expression unreadable in the harsh light. In his hands was a washcloth, white and thin from too many bleach cycles. He wet it in the bathwater, wrung it out.
“I can do it,” she said, her voice flat. Exhaustion made it sound like a statement, not a fight.
“I know,” he said.
He reached for her arm, his touch tentative. He began washing her shoulder, the cloth moving in slow, deliberate circles. The gentleness of it, after the punishing drive, after the fury in the bunker, felt like a lie. A sharp anger bubbled up in her chest, hot and sudden.
“Stop.” She pulled her arm back, water sloshing. “I don’t need a fucking nurse, Dom. I don’t need you to… to patch me up after you’ve spent all day treating me like a piece of luggage you’re smuggling.”
He didn’t flinch. He just looked at her, the washcloth dripping in his hand. His eyes were tired. “I’m not patching you up.”
“Then what are you doing?” The words came out louder than she intended, bouncing off the tiles. “You don’t talk. You drive. You clean guns. You… you take what you need from me against a tool chest. And then you… this?” She gestured at the cloth.
He was silent for a long moment. Then he dipped the cloth again, squeezed it. “Look at me,” he said, his voice low.
She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay angry. It was easier than the fear, easier than the deep, aching sorrow of their uprooted life.
“Zara. Look at me.”
She met his eyes. They were dark, full of a pain that mirrored her own, but beneath it was a steely determination she recognized. It wasn’t just about Braga anymore.
He didn’t speak. Instead, he reached for her again, his hand firmer this time. He guided her to lean forward, and he began washing her back. The motions were the same: slow, thorough, covering every inch. It was intimate in a way that felt entirely different from sex. This was service. This was penance.
Her anger wavered, crumbling under the sheer, stubborn weight of his care.
He moved to her other arm, then her neck. Each pass of the cloth was a silent apology. For the silence. For the rough handling. For the world he’d brought her into. The water grew cloudy with Arizona dust and road grit.
When he finished her upper body, he paused. His gaze dropped to the water, to the distorted shape of her belly beneath its surface. He wet the cloth again.
“Let me,” he said, not a command, but a request.
A tear escaped then, tracing a hot path down her cheek. She nodded, a tiny, jerky movement.
He slid his hand into the water, his fingers finding her calf under the surface. He lifted her leg gently, resting her foot on the edge of the tub. He washed her foot, carefully running the cloth between each toe. The care was absurd, exquisite. He did the same with her other leg.
Then, his touch changed. Became even more deliberate. He guided her to open her legs slightly in the water. He folded the washcloth in his hand. He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
Another tear fell. She looked away, out the foggy bathroom window at the blurred neon glow, and gave another small nod.
His hand moved between her thighs with a shocking, clinical gentleness. The cloth was warm. He cleaned her with the solemn focus of a priest performing a rite. It was not sexual. It was an act of restoration. Of reclaiming her body from the grime of the road, from the memory of their frantic union in the bunker, from everything that had been done to them.
Her breath hitched. A sob broke free, quickly stifled. Then another. She brought her hands to her face as the tears came in earnest, silent and wrenching.
He heard them. He didn’t stop. He finished, rinsing the cloth in the now-cool water. He lowered her leg back into the tub. Then he leaned his forearms on the porcelain edge, his head bowed, his face close to hers.
The only sounds were her muffled crying and the steady drip from the tap.
“Lo siento, mi vida,” he whispered, the Spanish rough and tender. I’m sorry, my life. It wasn’t for one thing. It was for all of it.
She shook her head, unable to speak, her tears mixing with the bathwater.
He stayed there, kneeling on the hard floor, until her sobs subsided into shaky breaths. He stood then, his knees popping, and grabbed a thin, rough motel towel. He held it open.
“Come on,” he said, his voice soft. “Water’s cold.”
She let him help her out. He wrapped the towel around her, rubbing her arms briskly, chasing the chill. He was inefficient at it, his large hands clumsy with the small task, but he didn’t stop until her skin was pink and warm.
He led her into the bedroom, to the double bed with its scratchy polyester spread. He pulled back the covers. She slipped in, the sheets cold and stiff. He walked to the other side, kicked off his boots, and slid in beside her, still fully clothed. He didn’t pull her to him immediately. He just lay on his back, staring at the ceiling’s water-stained texture.
The neon sign outside flickered, painting the room in pulses of sickly red and then shadow.
After a long time, she spoke into the darkness, her voice raw. “The crib won’t fit in here.”
He turned his head on the pillow. In the intermittent light, she saw the ghost of a smile touch his lips. It was there and gone. “Garage is bigger. We’ll build one.”
“You don’t know how to build a crib.”
“I built a 900 horsepower Hemi from a block of scrap. I can figure out a crib.”
A quiet, wet laugh escaped her. It felt strange in her throat. She rolled onto her side, facing him. She placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. It beat a steady, strong rhythm under her palm.
He covered her hand with his own, holding it there. His thumb stroked her knuckles.
“Tomorrow,” he said, the word a quiet promise in the dark, “we start.”