And his surprise deepened into shock as he found himself doing exactly what she said without a word, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and spreading his knees so she could stand between them.
She didn't seem to care that she was naked, that the rosy tips of her breasts were almost brushing his chest, or that he could see that pretty little thatch of curls between her thighs. Once again her attention was on his shoulder, her brow wrinkling in concentration.
He was supposed to be getting away from her, not sitting here letting her get close. And yet he couldn't seem to bring himself to move as she lifted her hands to the bandages, beginning to undo them. Her touch was so gentle and somehow the fact that she wasn't looking at him while she did it made it easier. She stood so near too, the warmth of her body somehow familiar, easing something inside him he hadn't realized was drawn tight.
She didn't speak as she unwound the bandages, and he wasn't conscious of the fact he'd put his hands on her hips until he felt the heat of her skin seeping through his palms.
How the fuck had that happened? Touching her wasn't what he was supposed to be doing either.
Yet he didn't take his hands away. It had been too long since he'd touched anything so soft, so smooth. Like warm satin. Too long since he'd allowed himself anything even remotely sensual, and he couldn't bring himself to stop. Something inside him was starving, desperate to be fed.
Slowly he let his hands stroke down the sides of her hips, trailing his fingertips over the curve of her buttocks, down to her thighs then back up again. Holy fuck, she felt so good. He let one hand rest on her hip, turning the other over and stroking the backs of his fingers across her stomach. Goose bumps raised in his wake and he stared, mesmerized by the movement of his hand and by the little obvious shivers that went through her as he stroked her.
"You should probably not do that," she murmured. "At least not until I'm finished."
Yeah, he probably shouldn't. But suddenly he didn't give a shit. Ignoring her, he tugged her in closer, spreading his hands out on her hips so he could feel warm skin against his own. She smelled of sex and sandalwood and Violet, and he was fucking hard again.
Jesus Christ, he was a mess.
She made a soft, disapproving sound in her throat, but didn't try to pull away from him. Instead, she tugged the mess of bandages off his shoulder, examining the wound with a critical eye. "You've only pulled one stitch and it doesn't look bad." Her mouth quirked. "Not that I'd know of course."
That slight curl to her mouth was mesmerizing. He'd done so many hard, violent things to her and yet here she was, standing naked in front of him, tending his wounds and nearly smiling just after having let him fuck her senseless. He didn't understand it.
Her bright, blue-green gaze found his. "You want me to clean it up?"
"Yes." His voice sounded strange, all rusty and broken.
Some expression he didn't recognize crossed her face. But all she said was, "Okay then."
He had to let her go so she could get what she needed out of his box of medical supplies, suggesting a few of the items since he knew more about dressing wounds than she did. But then she was back, standing in front of him as he let her clean the wound, murmuring a few instructions as she got out some clean bandages to bind it all back up again.
As she wrapped the last piece of gauze around his shoulder and tied it off, he reached for her again, unable to help himself, his hands on her hips, pulling her in close. Then he leaned in closer still, so his forehead pressed against her chest, and shut his eyes, inhaling all that sweet scent, feeling that tightness inside him uncurl even more.
He didn't know what he was so hungry for, but for some reason she seemed to be what he needed right now and he'd be fucked if he wouldn't take it. Ignoring it hadn't worked and continuing to pretend he didn't feel it hadn't worked either.
But he remembered what it was like to want, just as he remembered the pain when you couldn't have what you wanted.
It wasn't until now that he realized he'd been in pain for a very long time.
Violet's hands rested on his shoulders a moment then he felt them move to trace the muscles of his upper back, up and down in a gentle motion, as if she was trying to soothe a wild animal. And this time he didn't pull away, letting her touch him. Letting himself have this moment.
He'd probably end up regretting it, but right now he didn't much care.
Sliding his hands around, he eased them down over the curve of her buttocks, warm, giving flesh filling his palms. She gave a sigh, her fingers stroking the back of his neck then moving up into his hair.
"You're not the only one who wants something, you know," she said after a long moment of silence. "You want revenge. I want the truth about my brother."
Her brother? Where the hell had that come from? Not that he wanted to know.
Yes, you do.
He did.
Elijah had come to work for Fitzgerald years after his son Theodore had committed suicide jumping off a bridge. He hadn't ever met the young man, but whatever had happened to him, hadn't interested Elijah in the slightest. He'd been in the middle of enacting his own tragedy and hadn't wanted to involve himself in other people's.
"You never met him," Violet continued softly, not waiting for him to respond. "But he was … such a good guy. Such a great older brother. He taught me to ride a bike, balance on a skateboard, played me all the cool music … " She paused. "He taught me to question. To never take anything at face value. So when he died"-another pause, but those fingers in his hair didn't stop stroking-"I didn't believe it. They never found his body, you see, and I just couldn't figure out why he'd do something like that. He was near to completing his law degree at Harvard, was engaged to a really wonderful woman, had a fantastic career lined up with one of the really big firms. It just didn't make any sense."
Elijah didn't want to know, didn't want this window into her life, and yet he kept silent, pressed against her warm, naked flesh, as she went on, talking as if to herself.
"I know it looks like the classic success on the outside and impossible personal standards he couldn't live up to bullshit on the inside, but taking his own life like that wasn't Theo. He didn't run away from his responsibilities and he … would have said something to me if he was struggling, I know he would."
Her voice had gotten a little thicker, echoes of loss running through it, and he wanted to tell her to stop because he could feel those echoes pulling at the ones inside himself, reminding him of his own loss, his own pain. But still he stayed quiet, letting her speak.
"Anyway, he left me a note. I found it in my bedroom in the middle of a book he'd loaned me. It said Be careful. I didn't know what it meant and was going to ask him about it. And then he disappeared." Violet's fingers moved in his hair, her fingertips gentle on the back of his neck. His cock was hard and he wanted to pull her down on him because that was better than hearing the pain in her voice, yet something inside him held him back.
"He's not dead, Elijah," she said quietly. "In fact, I have evidence he's alive." Abruptly her fingers tightened in his hair. "That's why I need to get out of here. Why you need to let me go. I have to find him."
It wasn't loss in her voice now but desperation, and he didn't like what that did to him. Didn't like the way it made his chest tight and his own determination waver for just a second.
He jerked his head up and looked into her blue-green eyes, keeping his hands right where they were, hard on her hips. And there it was in her face, that desperation stamped all over it. And pain. And grief.
"Please don't leave me to Jericho." The raw honesty in her tone lined his ribs with barbed wire. "Please. I'll be your bait if you need it, but please don't leave me with him, not when I'm so close to finding my brother."
He hadn't thought about what would happen to her after he used her to lure Jericho out, because her well-being or otherwise hadn't concerned him. But as he stared up into her eyes, into her flushed and lovely face, he realized that had changed and no matter how much he didn't want it to, her well-being concerned him now.
How had that even fucking happened? And what the fuck was he supposed to do now? Growing his conscience back again wasn't supposed to happen, especially not when he was so close to his own goal.
Her hands shifted, holding onto his shoulders, and she didn't look away from him. And he was struck by the fact that although he was dangerous to her and she should be protecting herself against him, she was doing the opposite. Making herself vulnerable all over again by revealing these truths to him, by begging him.