“I understand.” She went in and cranked the water on, the shushing sound allowing them to stop whispering.
He plucked at his T-shirt when she came back out. “I can’t put this stuff back on. There should be a change of clothes in the hurricane shelter.” Unless she’d thrown out his stuff after she’d told him to get out. How far they’d come. Too bad.
She nodded and the glimmer in her eyes said she was thinking of that moment, too. “I can get down there and back without being seen. Not that any of them would question me wanting something of yours right now.” She turned to go, but he grabbed her hand.
“I’m really sorry you had to go through that. If I had known, I would have—”
“Come out during the day?” She smiled. “It’s okay. Now that you’re back, none of that matters.” Her face suddenly went solemn. “Just… don’t do that to me again, okay?”
“I won’t. I promise.” He leaned in and kissed her.
Halfway through it, she started to laugh. “Sorry, but you still smell.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing again. “I’ll kiss you more when you get out of the shower.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” And hold her against him. The voices could get bent.
She grinned as she slipped out the door. He inhaled, needing to replace the redolence of sewer with her honeyed perfume. Amazing that she was his willingly. Tugging his shirt off, he headed for the bathroom, where clouds of steam already wafted out the door. More steam had fogged the mirrors until all he could see of himself was a rough, dark shape. He dropped his ruined shirt to the floor and shut the door, leaving it unlocked in case his sweet, angelic comarré had other plans.
Chrysabelle had laid out a towel for him, so he shucked the remainder of his disgusting clothes and climbed into her cavernous marble and glass shower.
Hot water sluiced over him, tightening his muscles with an almost painful pleasure. Hot showers were plentiful on the freighter, but something about showering in a space the size of an old-fashioned phone booth sucked the pleasure out of it. Living on her property meant he’d probably get to use this shower whenever he wanted. Preferably with her in it. He leaned into the spray, letting the water beat against his skin and the thrum of it fill his head. The noise almost drowned out the voices.
Almost.
He grabbed the shower gel. The label said Lapointe Cosmetics. Thoughts of Maris and all she’d endured for Chrysabelle humbled him. He had no doubts her mother would not approve of their relationship. Mentally, he promised Maris he’d let no harm come to Chrysabelle. Then he squeezed out a palm full of the gel and went to work ridding the sewer’s stench from his body.
He emerged from the shower feeling better than he had in centuries. The last time he’d been this happy, freshly bathed, and full of blood from the vein had been… never. He snagged the fluffy white towel from the counter and dried off. How many times had this towel dried Chrysabelle? Leaving his hair damp, he wrapped the towel around his waist and walked into the bedroom.
Chrysabelle was curled in a chair near the French doors, reading through what looked like one of her mother’s journals. The stereo played softly, probably her attempt to block further conversation from the hypersensitive ears downstairs. Jeans and a black T-shirt waited on the bed for him.
“Checking to see what your mother would think about us?” She’d hate you. We do.
She jumped, her head coming up with a snap. “You startled me. No, I was…” She frowned, peering at him oddly. “Did the burns leave scars on you?”
“No, why?”
She set the journal down and came to him. “You have some weird spots on you.”
“Spots?” He bowed forward, trying to see himself without losing his towel.
“Like this.” She touched a place on his forearm above his wrist where there was the smallest area of unmarked skin.
“That’s where Fi’s name used to be. Remember? It disappeared after Mikkel killed her and never came back even after she got out of that nightmare loop.”
Her fingers eased to a stop over his right pec. “What about this one?”
He worked his jaw to one side, processing how good her touch felt. Keeping hold of his control while she was this close and he was this undressed wasn’t easy. He bent his head until he could manage a little better; otherwise the blazing shine of his eyes would give him away. If his body didn’t do that for him in the next couple of seconds. “I don’t know. That’s strange.”
“And this one?” Her fingers coasted toward his abs, stopping to the left of his navel.
He staggered back slightly and swallowed. Drinking from the vein after so long had made everything more powerful—his abilities, his senses, and his reactions. Her fingertips burned into his flesh, spilling sparks of pleasure across his nerve endings and muting the voices. Forcing himself to relax, he splayed his hand against his body, stretched the skin for a better look, then shook his head. “I have no idea. Haven’t seen my skin without the names since I escaped the ruins.”
She rubbed her finger across one of the blank spaces, leaving a trail of heat that burned down to his toes. “You’re missing three, but we can explain one. Do you know whose names they were?”
That single question quelled the desire threatening his reserve. Instead of answering immediately, he studied the blank spaces, buying time. He knew. He’d had years to do nothing but stare and remember. Talking about them to the woman he loved was completely different. He touched the spot on his stomach. “Margaret.” The teacher from Berlin. Then the spot on his chest. “Helen.” The flower girl in Gloucester. Not memories he was proud of. Not now. Not with her.