Chapter 60 Love, Raw And Uncut
Celene's POV
We sat in the garden for a while longer after his confession and the silence between us heavy with unspoken thoughts. My mind was spinning, trying to process everything he'd told me and about why he'd chosen me.
Then a wave of nausea hit me suddenly.
"Are you alright?" Cole asked immediately, noticing my expression change.
"I just feel a bit nauseous," I admitted. "And I think I need to change my cast soon. The doctor said it would need to be rewrapped."
He was on his feet instantly. "We should get you inside. What do you need?"
"A bath would help. And some fresh clothes. I've been wearing your oversized shirts for days now." I gestured at the massive shirt I was currently swimming in.
"I'll get you proper clothes and supplies for your cast. Anything else?"
I thought for a moment. "Toiletries? Something for my hair?"
"I'll take care of it. Go inside and rest. I'll bring everything to your room. Or should I walk you to you room?"
"No" I said almost immediately. "I'd take care of myself, just go get the supplies. I'll be waiting."
He nodded and I made my way back through the garden and into the mansion. My leg was aching from all the walking, and the nausea was getting worse. A hot bath sounded like heaven.
When I got to my room, I waited for a few minutes, expecting Cole to arrive with the supplies. But he didn't come. Minutes turned into more minutes, and I started to feel sticky and uncomfortable.
Finally, I decided I couldn't wait any longer. I'd just take a bath now and deal with everything else later.
The bathroom was still as impressive as the first time I'd seen it. I turned on the tap and let the massive tub fill with hot water, adding some bath salts I found on the shelf. Getting undressed with a cast was harder than I expected, but I managed.
The hot water felt incredible against my aching muscles. I sank into it with a sigh of relief, letting the heat ease the tension from my body. For a few minutes, I didn't think about anythng , just the warmth surrounding me.
But eventually, my thoughts drifted back to him. To what he'd said in the garden and the way he'd looked at me when he talked about my book, like it had changed something fundamental in him.
Could I really do it? Could I love someone like Cole? Someone who lived in darkness and blood? Someone who killed without hesitation?
My book had made it seem so simple. Azaziel was a demon, but he loved purely. He protected fiercely. He was darkness, but he was also devoted.
Was Cole the same? Or was real life more complicated than fiction?
I didn't have answers yet.
After soaking until the water started to cool, I got out and wrapped myself in one of the fluffy towels hanging nearby. My hair was wet and tangled, and I struggled to comb through it with one hand while keeping my cast dry.
I gave up and walked back into the bedroom, planning to at least try to get dressed before Cole arrived with the supplies.
But I'd barely made it to the vanity mirror when the door opened.
Cole walked in, several shopping bags in his hands, his mouth already forming words. "I'm sorry I'm late, I wanted to..."
He stopped mid-sentence as the door clicked shut behind him and we both froze.
His eyes widened slightly as he took in my appearance. Hair wet and dripping onto my bare shoulders. Skin still damp from the bath, wearing nothing but a towel that suddenly felt much too small.
His gaze traveled down my body slowly, almost involuntarily, before snapping back up to my face. But not before I saw his eyes darken with desire, the green turning almost black with something that made my skin heat up all over again.
I should say something. Tell him to leave or grab something to cover myself with more thoroughly.
But I couldn't move or speak. Could barely even breathe.
The tension in the room became electric, crackling between us like lightning.
He took a step toward me, then seemed to catch himself. He set the bags down on the bed carefully, his movements deliberate and controlled.
"I'm... I'm sorry for barging in...I didn't know you'd be in this position..." he said, his voice rougher than usual. "And I came late because I wanted to make sure I got everything right."
His eyes kept drifting back to me, and each time they did, I felt my heart rate spike.
"Now that you're done bathing," he continued, clearing his throat, "do you need help with your injuries? Changing the cast?"
It was an excuse. We both knew it. He should have knocked, waited outside or called out before entering.
But I didn't call him out on it.
"I need help with my hair," I heard myself say. "I can't manage it with the cast."
It was a dangerous request. Crossing lines we probably shouldn't cross.
But he moved toward me anyway.
He picked up the comb from the vanity and stepped behind me. His fingers brushed against my bare shoulder as he gently gathered my wet hair, and I shivered despite the warmth still radiating from my skin.
He worked through the tangles slowly, carefully, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone whose hands I'd seen covered in blood. Each stroke of the comb sent tingles down my spine. Each accidental brush of his fingers against my neck made my breath catch.
I could see him in the mirror. See the tension in his jaw. See the way his eyes kept dropping to my shoulders, my collarbone, the curve of my neck. See the restraint it was taking him not to do more than just comb my hair.
Our eyes met in the reflection, and neither of us looked away.
The air between us grew thick with unspoken desire and unresolved tension.
He set down the comb, but his hands didn't leave my hair. His fingers slid from the strands down to my neck, my shoulders, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
I shivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with being cold.
He leaned down, his lips so close to my ear I could feel his breath against my skin.
"Celene," he whispered, and my name sounded like a prayer or a curse or both.
I turned slowly to face him, and suddenly we were so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Could count his heartbeats by the pulse in his neck.
His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone with unbearable gentleness.
I should stop this and push him away. I was still angry at him. Still terrified of what loving him might mean.
But my body was betraying me, leaning into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
His other hand found my waist, his fingers pressing against the towel, and I felt the heat of his palm through the thin fabric.
His thumb moved to trace my bottom lip, and my breath caught in my throat.
We were so impossibly close now.
He leaned in slowly, giving me every opportunity to probably stop him or pull away.
But I didn't so he thought I was consenting.
Just when his lips were a breath away from mine, reality crashed back over me like ice water.
What was I doing?
I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath my palm, and pushed gently.
"I can't," I whispered. "Not yet. Not like this."