Page 115 of Striker
Atlas took her right into the bathroom, set her down on the counter, then turned on the tap in the bathtub. He put his hand under the faucet, and when he seemed satisfied with the temperature, he turned around.
His gaze hit her face like two intense laser beams, seeking out injury. He approached her carefully and cradled her jaw as he’d done in the jungle.
She melted into his hands, fighting the tears that wanted to push through her lashes.
“Molly,” he breathed. “I’m so damn sorry.”
She blinked. Frowning, she shook her head. “What are you sorry about?”
“I was supposed to protect you. And look—you’re beat up, for god’s sake. None of this should’ve happened.”
She looped her fingers around one of his wrists. “No, but that responsibility isn’t on you. It just . . . happened.”
His mouth settled into a hard, unrelenting line. His thumb touched her cheekbone. “I want some ice on that.”
She shuddered. “I’ve been cold for so long I can’t stand the thought of ice.”
“Let’s get you warm then.” He reached for the hem of her shirt. The material stuck to her skin as he removed it, and she winced as it pulled at the bruises.
His gaze drifted over her torso as he dropped the shirt to the ground, and a vein ticked in his forehead. “What the fuck happened?”
His fingers skimmed down her arms and then lifted her elbows to survey her abdomen. She cringed and closed her eyes. Everywhere was tender, but she could only guess how bad it looked—and she didn’t want to see those marks right now.
“I should’ve taken you in. Christ.” He dragged a hand over his face.
Sitting there in her bra, she felt self-conscious in front of him. More vulnerable. Not because she didn’t want him to see her body, but because she hated the look on his face when he saw her hurt. She moved to fold her arms in front of her waist, but he caught her hands.
“Mol, tell me what they did.”
The water sputtered, and she nodded in the direction of the tub. “That’s going to overflow.”
He stepped away and flicked the handle, then returned and lifted her from the counter. She winced as the soles of her feet touched the cool, hard tile.
He stilled. “What’s wrong?”
“I have cuts on my feet. That’s all.”
He reached for the waistband of her pants and helped her out of them, then turned her around to unclip her bra. Naked and hyperaware, she closed her eyes for several seconds, her back to him, then took a step toward the tub.
Until today, she’d felt beautiful around Atlas. Sexy. Desired. Now, she was acutely mindful of how thin she was, how bruised and battered.
She lifted her foot over the lip of the tub and Atlas’s grip steadied her. With one hand on her elbow and the other on her waist, he helped her lower into the hot water.
She let out a groan of delight as the warmth surrounded every inch of her body. “Ohmigod, this feels amazing.” She slid down until all but her head was submerged. “I just want to sleep in here.”
“Can’t allow that.” He knelt near the tub and dipped his hand in the water, reaching for her foot. “I just want to make sure you don’t need stitches anywhere.”
He cradled her heel in his palm and frowned. Dipping her leg back into the water, he lifted the other. “Nothing serious, but they must be sore. I’ll bandage them once you get out. There’s quite a few scrapes. How’d that happen?”
She skimmed her fingers along the surface of the water. It was clear, leaving her entire body on display for him. She should’ve been shy, but with Atlas, she wasn’t. “I escaped. Made it to the beach and found a small cave, but . . .”
His fingers gently massaged the ankle still in his hold, silently urging her on.
“They saw my footprints in the sand and found me.” She moved her tongue over her cracked, salty lips, remembering the dark cave and the even darker places her mind had gone.
She’d felt so alone.
Had assumed she was going to die right then and there.
