"You heard me," he said.
"I did hear you. I'm choosing to believe I hallucinated it. Head injury and all."
"Ava."
"Cillian."
He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He just stood there at the edge of the bed looking down at me with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world and fully intended to win this one.
"I'm not getting in a bathtub while you're in the room," I said.
"You have dried blood in your hair. You can't lift your arms without going dizzy. You'll pass out and drown and I'll have to explain to Nik why my wife died in three inches of bathwater."
"That's dramatic."
"You fainted twice yesterday."
"I didn't faint. I rested my eyes. Aggressively. On the floor."
His mouth twitched. Just barely. "I'll fill the tub. You get in and cover yourself with the bubble. I'll wash your hair and your back. That's it."
"That's it?!"
"That's it."
I stared at him. He stared back. His green eyes were steady and calm and completely unreasonable.
"Fine," I said, because my head was genuinely pounding and the thought of dried blood in my hair for another hour was making my skin crawl. "But if you look at anything below my collarbone, I'm filing for divorce."
"Noted."
He disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the taps turn on and then a pause. He came back to the doorway.
"Lavender or eucalyptus?"
"What?"
"The bath oil. Lavender or eucalyptus?"
This man had bath oil options. In a safehouse. I was going to lose my mind.
"Lavender," I said weakly.
He disappeared again. The sound of water filled the apartment and I sat on the edge of the bed trying to figure out how my life had arrived at a point where a mafia prince was drawing me a lavender bath and I was letting him.
I changed into my robe in the bedroom, wrapped it tight, checked the mirror, tightened it again, and walked into the bathroom on legs that were unsteady for reasons that had nothing to do with my concussion.
The tub was enormous, filled with water and a thick layer of bubbles that smelled like lavender. Steam curled up from the surface and the whole room was warm and soft-edged.
Cillian was leaning against the far wall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms folded, waiting.
"Turn around," I said.
He turned. I dropped the robe and got into the water so fast I nearly slipped and created a second head injury. The water was perfect. Hot enough to melt the tension in my shoulders, the bubbles thick enough that I was covered from chin to toe. I sank down until only my head was above the surface.
"Okay," I said. "You can turn around."
He turned, grabbed a small stool from the corner, and set it beside the tub. He sat down and I became very aware of how close he was. His knee almost touching the side of the tub. His face level with mine. This close, in the warm steam, I could see the individual lashes framing his eyes. They were dark at the base and tipped with gold, unfairly long, the kind of lashes that beauty companies would kill for.
I was staring. I looked at the bubbles instead.
"Lean forward," he said.
I leaned forward, pulling my knees to my chest under the water. His hand cupped water and poured it over my hair, slow and careful, avoiding the bandaged side. Then his fingers were in my hair.
I stopped breathing.
He worked gently, separating the strands where the blood had dried and matted them together. His fingertips moved against my scalp, slow circles, loosening the knots with a patience that didn't belong to a man who ran an empire. The warm water trickled down my neck and my back and I felt every single drop like a separate event.
"Tell me if it hurts," he said. His voice was lower than usual. Like he was talking to something fragile and knew it.
"It doesn't hurt," I said, which was true. His fingers in my hair felt so good that I had to concentrate very hard on not making any sounds that would be embarrassing for both of us.
He poured more water. Worked something through my hair, shampoo maybe. His fingers massaged my scalp in slow, thorough strokes and I bit the inside of my cheek because my eyes were closing and my body was doing things my brain had not authorized.
"You're tense," he said.
"I'm in a bathtub with a man I've known for less than two weeks. Tense is the baseline."
"You've known me for three months."
"I've been running from you for three months. That's different."
His hands paused. Then resumed, slower. He rinsed my hair section by section, his fingers combing through the length of it, careful around the wound. When he was satisfied that the blood was gone, he gathered my hair over one shoulder and I felt his hand settle on my upper back.
"I'll do your back," he said. "Where you can't reach."
I nodded because words were becoming difficult.
A cloth, warm and soapy, moved across my shoulders. Down between my shoulder blades. Along the curve of my spine. His touch was firm and practical and completely, devastatingly gentle. Every pass of the cloth sent warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the bath water.
I could feel his breath on my shoulder. Close. He was so close.
"You called them," I said. My voice sounded distant. "Lana and Elena. You texted them from my phone."
His hand stilled on my back. "You needed them."
"How did you know?"
"You talk in your sleep." A pause. "You said Lana's name twice and Elena's once."
My chest tightened. He'd sat in that chair all night, listening to me sleep, and instead of using what he learned to control me, he'd used it to bring me the people I missed.
"Thank you," I whispered.
His hand resumed its slow path across my back. "You're getting better at that."
"Don't ruin it."
I felt him exhale. Something close to a laugh, warm against the wet skin of my shoulder.
"Okay," he said after a while. "You're done."
He didn't move. His hand rested on my shoulder, thumb against the curve of my neck. I turned my head and he was right there. Inches away. His eyes moved from mine to my mouth and stayed there and the steam curled between us and the bathroom was so quiet I could hear both of us breathing.
His lashes caught the light when he blinked. The scar through his eyebrow was faint this close, a thin pale line against his skin. His lips were parted and I watched his jaw tighten the way it did when he was stopping himself from doing something.
I wanted him to do it.
The thought arrived fully formed and honest and terrifying. I wanted him to close the distance. I wanted to know what his mouth tasted like. I wanted it so badly that my hand came up out of the water and touched his jaw, wet fingers against warm stubble, and he closed his eyes like the contact had physically hurt him.
"Ava," he said. A warning. To me or to himself, I couldn't tell.
"I know," I whispered.
We stayed there. His hand on my shoulder, mine on his jaw, the steam between us, neither of us closing the gap and neither of us pulling away.
Then his phone rang from the bedroom.
He exhaled. Pressed his forehead against mine for one second. Then stood, handed me a towel, and walked out without looking back.
I sank into the water until the bubbles covered my burning face.
I was in so much trouble.
When I finally came out, dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, hair damp and clean and blood-free, he was in the living room on the phone. I waited until he hung up.
"So," I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around unhinged. "I noticed my stuff is here. My books. My clothes. My terrible mugs."
He pocketed his phone. "Nik picked them up from your apartment."
"My apartment? Why did you move my stuff? I still pay rent and my name is on a lease."
"The lease has been taken care of."
I blinked. "Taken care of how?"
"Cancelled. Your things are in the spare bedroom."
The warmth from the bathroom evaporated. "You cancelled my lease. Without telling me. Without asking me."
He looked at me like he was waiting for me to arrive at the reasonable conclusion that a woman with a head wound and a stalker and a cover identity had no business living in a ground-floor apartment with a lock a child could pick.
"You moved my entire life into your apartment," I said slowly, "while I was asleep. Without even informing me?!"
"You needed rest."
"I needed a conversation!"
"You would have argued."
"Yes! Because it's my life! You can't just—"
"It's done, Ava."
I stared at him. He stared back. Same infuriating, beautiful, impossible man who washed blood out of my hair and then rearranged my entire existence without blinking.
"You're unbelievable," I said.
"You're welcome."
I turned and walked into the spare bedroom and slammed the door. Then, I screamed into a pillow.