Connor shook his head slowly, his hands working warm water methodically through her locks, like a man bent on destroying evidence. In truth, he thought he might be freeing her from it, even if only a little, so that when she looked in a mirror, the memories wouldn't hurt her as much as he suspected the Ciraco brothers had. "Shouldn't it?" His fingers caught on a knot and he murmured in an apologetic tone as he eased them away from her hair, green eyes seeking a gentle shampoo from the fruity selection of bottles collected on the inset shelf of the tub. He settled on a conditioner that smelled of apple pie first, thinking to help soften the strands. "Or...maybe it's enough to know they won't ever touch you again."
Cool, slick apple gel smoothed through her hair, his fingers tugging gently where needed to set things to rights. He paused only a moment when that strained, sweet voice spoke up, her curiosity soothing the opposing, ragged ache inside his chest. "It's our home," he corrected softly, his fingers stirring once more. "Mine, and now also yours."
For a time. He just wasn't sure how long. Ordinarily...but this was nothing ordinary, and because of how she'd been treated under his family's roof. No matter that he didn't wish to claim that twisted branch of bloodline these days; loyalty to the Kristi name still dictated his wishes. He couldn't simply let her go. Couldn't risk her speaking out, or an opposing group getting their hands on her...or even his father reclaiming her for his dungeon.
"But yes, we're not alone. Ten guards--six men, four women--they rotate out on shifts." Variable ones, so if Connor's abode was under unwanted observation, they'd not be predictable. "When they're off the clock, they have eyes open and usually choose to be about. Training, eating, playing video games, the like. So...you can get to know them. There are four others in my uncle's employ who cover during leave. All good men as well, but they aren't here unless they're working. There's Josie, you sort of met. She helps keep house."
By the time he'd finished with a round of faintly vanilla-scented shampoo and another round of the apple pie conditioner, Connor felt more like himself. It may have had something to do with the fact that she looked more like she ought, softer instead of brittle, with dripping strands about her sweet, albeit bruised, face. He continued to fill the silence along with his ministrations, dabbing a fresh washcloth over her face, special care taken around her gag-abused lips, then down her neck, her hunched shoulders.
"Three other maids who do the same, again, in shifts. And ah...the title is more of a running joke, really." Given that they played cards to bet against one another's cleaning duties. One of them was also a man, and Ransom pretended to be French.
Connor smiled, and his dimples went deep. "What needs done, gets done." He swept the washcloth over her collarbone. "The most important one on-staff is Lilly. She's our full-time cook. You'll like her."
His jaw tightened on the assumption, and he stopped talking. That she'd like Lilly was mere hope, not certainty. It was true that so far Lillian got along with everyone. She also sewed up a mean bullet-hole. But Connor didn't know anything about this small, curious woman. Not her preferences--Did being on such a high floor bother her? Would she prefer something closer to the ground as she was more accustomed?--not her fears--though he could guess what they now were--not her hopes...not even her name. He started a bit at that. He'd been so focused on getting her out of that damned prison and she'd been so out of it, he hadn't wanted to press, hadn't wanted to strain her voice any further. Now that she was asking questions, though...it seemed a gaping hole in his knowledge of her, instead of simply a thing to be learned along the way. Maybe now that they were alone, maybe if she was feeling more like herself, maybe now was an appropriate time to ask.
And though she wouldn't note the import, to remedy his lapse, he knew he'd offer her something none of the women he'd kept in residence for a time had been allowed.
After all, this wasn't her choice.
"I...would like to call you by your name." He coughed then, his mouth suddenly dry. "You may call me...Connor."
The water was too dirty now to be effective, and Connor pulled the plug, checked the temperature from the faucet, ran it again. When the water would run clear, he'd drain it a final time, offer her the warmed towel, and help her once more into his arms.
Cool, slick apple gel smoothed through her hair, his fingers tugging gently where needed to set things to rights. He paused only a moment when that strained, sweet voice spoke up, her curiosity soothing the opposing, ragged ache inside his chest. "It's our home," he corrected softly, his fingers stirring once more. "Mine, and now also yours."
For a time. He just wasn't sure how long. Ordinarily...but this was nothing ordinary, and because of how she'd been treated under his family's roof. No matter that he didn't wish to claim that twisted branch of bloodline these days; loyalty to the Kristi name still dictated his wishes. He couldn't simply let her go. Couldn't risk her speaking out, or an opposing group getting their hands on her...or even his father reclaiming her for his dungeon.
"But yes, we're not alone. Ten guards--six men, four women--they rotate out on shifts." Variable ones, so if Connor's abode was under unwanted observation, they'd not be predictable. "When they're off the clock, they have eyes open and usually choose to be about. Training, eating, playing video games, the like. So...you can get to know them. There are four others in my uncle's employ who cover during leave. All good men as well, but they aren't here unless they're working. There's Josie, you sort of met. She helps keep house."
By the time he'd finished with a round of faintly vanilla-scented shampoo and another round of the apple pie conditioner, Connor felt more like himself. It may have had something to do with the fact that she looked more like she ought, softer instead of brittle, with dripping strands about her sweet, albeit bruised, face. He continued to fill the silence along with his ministrations, dabbing a fresh washcloth over her face, special care taken around her gag-abused lips, then down her neck, her hunched shoulders.
"Three other maids who do the same, again, in shifts. And ah...the title is more of a running joke, really." Given that they played cards to bet against one another's cleaning duties. One of them was also a man, and Ransom pretended to be French.
Connor smiled, and his dimples went deep. "What needs done, gets done." He swept the washcloth over her collarbone. "The most important one on-staff is Lilly. She's our full-time cook. You'll like her."
His jaw tightened on the assumption, and he stopped talking. That she'd like Lilly was mere hope, not certainty. It was true that so far Lillian got along with everyone. She also sewed up a mean bullet-hole. But Connor didn't know anything about this small, curious woman. Not her preferences--Did being on such a high floor bother her? Would she prefer something closer to the ground as she was more accustomed?--not her fears--though he could guess what they now were--not her hopes...not even her name. He started a bit at that. He'd been so focused on getting her out of that damned prison and she'd been so out of it, he hadn't wanted to press, hadn't wanted to strain her voice any further. Now that she was asking questions, though...it seemed a gaping hole in his knowledge of her, instead of simply a thing to be learned along the way. Maybe now that they were alone, maybe if she was feeling more like herself, maybe now was an appropriate time to ask.
And though she wouldn't note the import, to remedy his lapse, he knew he'd offer her something none of the women he'd kept in residence for a time had been allowed.
After all, this wasn't her choice.
"I...would like to call you by your name." He coughed then, his mouth suddenly dry. "You may call me...Connor."
The water was too dirty now to be effective, and Connor pulled the plug, checked the temperature from the faucet, ran it again. When the water would run clear, he'd drain it a final time, offer her the warmed towel, and help her once more into his arms.
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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