The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(49)

Assail was no longer sitting down. And he was not by the toilet.

He had moved to the sink and was staring at himself in the mirror.

With a shaking hand, he reached out to the glass and touched the reflection of his hollowed cheek, his too-prominent brow, his lips that were loose.

“The water’s almost warm,” she whispered. Even though it wasn’t. “Come on, let’s get you under the spray.”

But Assail just stood there, staring at the image of what was clearly a dying man.

When his knees started to go, she caught him by throwing an arm around his frail body. He weighed far too little, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on that.

“Sit,” she said as she helped him back down onto the closed toilet seat.

Then she kneeled in front of him. As his eyes welled with tears, she felt so powerless.

“It’s all right,” she murmured as she snapped a hand towel off a rod. “Just let it all out.”

Folding the terrycloth in half again, she pressed the softness to his face—and then somehow, he was in her arms, leaning on her for strength, his body collapsed onto her.

In slow circles, she moved her palm around the prominent bones of his back and rib cage. “I’ve got you,” she whispered in his ear. “Cry it out, you’ll feel better—”

A knock on the door stiffened him and he lifted his head in alarm as if he were terrified that anyone but her would see him as vulnerable as he was.

“We’re fine,” Sola said sharply as she urged his head back down and protected him. “Do not come in.”

Ehlena’s voice was muffled through the closed door. “Just checking. I’ll give you guys privacy.”

“Thank you.”

After a while, Assail lifted his head as if it weighed a thousand pounds. And before he could speak, she wiped his face. “Let’s do the shower later—”

“I never thought…” He cleared his throat. “I never thought I would come back. I thought I had lost me forever. I’m so scared, Marisol. What if I…I don’t want to be lost again.”

She would have given the world to be able to tell him he didn’t have to worry about that. But she was not going to lie to him.

“I’m not leaving you. However much time you have, I’ll be here.”

With trembling fingers, he touched her hair, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. And then he lingered at her mouth, running a feather-light stroke across her lower lip.

She knew exactly what he was asking.

“Yes,” she said. “As soon as you’re able.”



* * *



—

Staring into Marisol’s face, Assail desperately wanted to be with his female. He wanted her naked and underneath him, his body sexed up and penetrating hers, the two of them orgasming at the same time.

Unfortunately, that seemed like a distant country, reachable only after a treacherous, exhausting trip. But he would get there. He had told the Chosen Ghisele to come back in another eight hours. She was feeding from the Brothers to keep her own strength up as she provided him with what he needed, and maybe after another feeding he would lose the paranoia he would backslide again.

Every time he took that Chosen’s vein, he progressed by leaps and bounds.

But ’lo, how he wished it could have been Marisol’s blood in him.

For a moment, Assail entertained that fantasy, except then he refocused. With his madness only so recently dissipating, he didn’t like to get too lost in memories or daydreams. In both cases, such vivid thoughts took him away from the touch-taste-see-hear of reality, and the dissociation terrified him.

He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“Let’s go back to bed.”

“I want to be clean,” he countered. “I just want to feel…clean.”

As if a good shampoo and soaping would wash this nightmare away.

“All right,” Marisol said as she got to her feet. “Let’s do this.”

He absolutely despised the way she had to help him stand up, and he’d learned his lesson with the mirror over the sink: As she aided him with taking off his hospital johnny, he did not look down at himself.

No, thank you. He wasn’t going to like what he saw there any more than he’d enjoyed his face or bald skull.

And damn it, he wanted to stand on his own underneath the spray, like a grown male should, but with the heat swirling around because of the hot water, he could feel his blood pressure dropping. So the chair it was—

“Oh…” he sighed. “This is wonderful.”

“Too hot? Too cold?”

“Perfect.”

Leaning back and resting his bald head on the tile wall, he let the amazing rush cascade down his flesh.

“You want me to wash you?” Marisol asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Please. That would be most gracious of you.”

Embarrassed by how little he could do for himself, he fell back upon his aristocratic manners, as if politeness could somehow make up for his weakness. Yet Marisol didn’t seem to judge him at all—or hold him in lesser regard. In fact, she smiled and seemed to enjoy helping. And she was gentle with the washcloth on his hypersensitive skin.

It felt so good to have her hands upon him. He didn’t want it to end.