Reap (Scarred Souls, #2)(24)

His eyes then darted to the bowl. And it dawned on me. I understood what Zaal wanted. He wanted me to clean his face.

“Your face?” I asked. He stilled on hearing me speak. “You want me to bathe your face?”

His beautiful, hopeless eyes closed for a fraction of a moment. He was saying “yes.”

Wiping a stray tear that had escaped the corner of my eye, I withdrew my hand and moved to the bowl. I reached in the bag I’d brought down and retrieved a small facecloth. Seeing a bottle of water behind Zaal, I used the remnants of the water to dampen the cloth, adding soap. Zaal watched me the entire time. His previously stern eyes had softened. And the almost-kind look in his eyes, set against the raw, intimidating features of his face staggered me.

I inched closer to the position I was in before. And I noticed something for the first time. Zaal’s chest rapidly rose and fell the closer I got to him. I was bringing something out in him. He was affected by me, and I couldn’t believe just how much I was affected by him.

Taking the cloth, I pressed it against his cheek. Leaning in, I felt his warm breath ghost over my face. I saw the veins in his neck stand out with every soft stroke I made. And this close, with the removal of the weeks’ worth of dirt and grime on his face, certain features came to light. His skin was smooth, his lashes so dark; it was almost as if kohl liner had been applied to his upper eyelid. The effect of it framed his jade eyes perfectly. Jade eyes that never once moved from mine. Jade eyes that on closer inspection, completely stole my soul. The color was breathtaking, his irises pure bright green, no flecks of brown, just the cleanest and most beautiful of colors, heightened by his dark Georgian features.

But what held me captive, what stirred something inside me was something quite inconsequential. Three small beauty marks, three delicate moles lying just to the side of his left eye. They made him appear human, not the animal, the fierce wild monster he’d been conditioned to be. These three moles promised me that here sat a person. Underneath the scars, the muscles, and the tattoos was a hurt and lost man.

I washed Zaal’s face. Even when it was clean, I didn’t want to stop touching his face. I didn’t want to stop running my hands over his high cheekbones, along his broad forehead, and across his strong jaw. It was apparent he craved my touch as much as I loved to touch him. When I moved to withdraw my hand, Zaal lifted his hand and placed it over mine.

My palm was flat to his cheek.

We breathed in unison.

There were no words, no sounds, just my skin connecting with his.

Before long, Zaal’s eyes closed. By the shallow breaths he was taking, I knew it wouldn’t be long before he fell to sleep. His body was exhausted, the result of dispelling whatever hard drug was flowing through his veins.

Yet his hand didn’t move off mine. Zaal’s head was angled just so, as though he was leaning into my touch.

My heart skipped several beats. I couldn’t take the feelings coursing through my body. I couldn’t take what being in Zaal’s presence was making me feel. Like something I had to keep at bay was clawing its way to the surface.

Once I was assured he slept, I gently removed my hand from his face. A sudden wash of emptiness flowed through me. Lifting the washcloth, I slipped it back into the bag. I then pulled his sweatpants up as far as I could manage.

Zaal didn’t stir.

As I moved away, I stared down at the remaining heir to the Kostava clan. Any hate I’d harbored had disappeared.

Confused, and more than disturbed at the events of today, I picked up the bowl and my bag, and walked to the stairs. I tried not to look back, but my heart physically ached at the thought of leaving him down here in this hell of a basement alone, no light to comfort him, no me to press my palm to his cheek and help him relax.

Unable to stop the pang of guilt ripping through my chest, I forced myself to reach the top of the stairs and open the door. I raced to the bathroom, deposited the dirty water, and moved to the kitchen to lock away the key. But as I walked into the room, Savin and Ilya were both staring at me, both wearing the same look of disappointment on their faces. I glanced down to the cut surveillance monitor beside them, the screen now filled with nothing but white noise. I shook my head at their anger.

Ilya moved forward as if to speak, but I held up my hand. “Don’t,” I ordered with a hard voice. “I’m going to my room.”

Turning on my heel, I ran up the stairs and into my bedroom. In seconds I was in the shower, my mind drowning me in the memories of what had just happened.

I pictured Zaal’s eyes softening as I cleansed him. His hand moving my fingers against my face, silently begging me to wash his face. And then him falling to sleep as he pressed my palm to his cheek; drifting off to sleep fully trusting me, a stranger.

I ran my hands down my cheeks. I felt torn. Because I felt. I felt something for him, my enemy. Heat coursed through my body as I remembered stroking him, remembered his hand guiding me to make him come, his stuttered breathing, and the look of pure pleasure that spread across his face as he released on his stomach.

Unable to fight back a moan at the memory, my hand slipped down my soapy body to where I needed it the most. My fingers ran across my clit and I cried out at how badly I needed release, too. The memory alone of his grunts and rumbled growls brought me to the edge. My back braced against the wall as I circled my fingers faster and faster, long moans slipping from my mouth. Then when I imagined him staring in my eyes as his jaw clenched, he roared and came, white streams of his cum in contrast with the olive tone of his stomach. I cried out as pure pleasure ripped through me. My body curled inward at the force of how strong I came, gasping for breath in the aftermath.