Chapter 22: Stripped of Silence
The chair creaked as he shifted his weight, leaning closer, elbows on his knees. The bathroom seemed to shrink with every second, the steam rising off the water curling into thin veils around us. Candlelight flickered along the tiled walls, throwing gold and shadow across his face, making his eyes look even sharper, like cut glass.
“I’ll wash you,” he said again, softer this time, but there was no question in his voice, just a statement.
I clenched my fists tighter in the soaked fabric, desperate to hold it closed, my knuckles whitening under the candlelight. The shirt stuck to my skin like a second layer, heavy, cold, and revealing. My heart thundered in my chest, the sound so loud I thought he could hear it echo against the tiles.
“Stop,” I whispered. It came out softer than I intended, more tremble than command, almost pleading. My throat burned from the effort of swallowing back everything I wanted to scream.
His eyes flicked up to mine, those icy blue depths glinting like a blade’s edge. For a moment, his gaze softened, but then it sharpened again, cutting through me. “Stop?” His tone was calm, almost curious, as if I’d just handed him a puzzle to solve. “What’s wrong?”
“I can wash myself…” I said. My face burned red from embarrassment, the heat crawling up my neck and into my ears. How could he just act like this was normal, like we were a married couple, like this wasn’t completely insane?
“You can’t,” he said, his voice dipping into something firmer, steadier. His eyes flicked down. “Because of your injured leg.”
I stiffened, my right leg slipping out of the water slightly as if to prove his point. His gaze lingered on it for a second too long, unreadable.
“But I’m not using my legs to wash up,” I said quickly, trying to find some logic, some way out. My voice cracked halfway through. “I have hands.” I tried to keep the shirt plastered to my chest, tugging it higher, but his fingers were already teasing at the hem as though my resistance was only a game to him.
“You won’t wash up properly,” he said calmly. Not angry. Not mocking. Just… stating it, like it was a simple truth, like gravity.
My mouth opened, but the words tangled on my tongue. The water sloshed softly as I shifted, clutching the shirt tighter. Candle flames hissed faintly as a draft moved through the room, the sound like a warning.
“What… even if I can’t, you just can’t…” I searched for the right words, my brain blank. My heart was racing so hard it hurt. “You can tell that lady…” my voice broke, desperate “… that lady you sent here to help me yesterday.” That was all I could think of. My last card.
“She’s not around,” he said without missing a beat, his tone low but final. “So I’ll take over.”
“What, but…” I felt my throat close. My fingers trembled where they clutched the wet fabric.
“But what?” His voice was softer now, but the softness was deceptive, dangerous.
“You’re a man…” The words cracked out of me, a whisper barely louder than the drip of water from the faucet. My chest heaved as the fight inside me started to crumble. I was at the edge of tears, at the edge of something else I couldn’t name.
He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes catching the candlelight. For a moment, he didn’t look like the untouchable mafia boss everyone feared. He looked like a boy trying to force a smile through a crack, a boy trying to coax an angry mother out of her room. The expression twisted something in my chest, making it harder to breathe.
At this rate, I was about to cry. He didn’t even seem to see anything wrong here. He didn’t even seem to realize how insane it was.
The bathroom was filled with the sounds of the water lapping against the porcelain, the soft scrape of the chair as he shifted again, and the faint tremor of my own breath. My heart slammed against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage.
His fingers moved slightly, brushing my hand where it clutched the shirt. His touch was cool and steady, not forceful. The room smelled of lavender soap, damp cotton, and faint smoke from the candles. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to shut it all out, the scent, the heat, the closeness, the sound of his breathing just inches away.
I didn’t dare speak again. Not yet. My voice felt like it would break completely if I tried.
The water swirled around my left leg, the candlelight flickering like restless shadows. My reflection wavered on the surface, fractured, like the life I used to have.
I felt his gaze on me still, heavy, unblinking. Waiting.
The shirt slipped from my shoulders like it had betrayed me, pooling at my elbows before I could stop it. The wet fabric made a soft, slapping sound against the water before sinking, heavy, to the bottom of the tub. A sharp breath caught in my throat as cool air rushed against my damp skin, kissing every inch of me like a secret I hadn’t given permission to share. Goosebumps rose up my arms and across my chest. I'm all naked in front of this man.
I folded my arms over myself in a desperate shield, my small hands trembling against the breasts. My cheeks burned scarlet, shame and helplessness painting me raw. My heart felt too big for my ribs, hammering so hard I thought it might crack.
I turned my back to him, heart hammering. Maybe if I didn’t look at him, maybe if I made myself small, invisible, he’d lose interest in this cruel game.
Then came the touch. His hand slid around my back, fingers brushing the curve of my side as he pulled me against him. His body was a wall of heat at my back, his breath brushing the wet strands of my hair. A gasp escaped me, too soft, too fragile to carry the defiance I wanted it to.
My pulse roared in my ears. Why was he doing this himself? Why not summon one of his endless staff? Was this his punishment — to reduce me to trembling, to watch me fold beneath his presence?
But when the sponge touched my skin, it was… gentle. Almost unbearably so. The rough texture grazed across my shoulder blade, down my spine, leaving behind a trail of warmth that warred with the cool water. Each movement was deliberate, patient, as though he was carving something invisible into me with every stroke.
I bit my lip hard to stop the sound rising in my throat. I didn’t want him to hear me break, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Yet the silence between us was louder than any scream, filled with the slow drag of the sponge, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the erratic stutter of my own.
I squeezed my eyes shut. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.
But it was.
“See?” his voice broke the air at last, low and maddeningly calm, close enough that I felt it against my ear. “Nothing to fear.”
Nothing to fear? My whole body was screaming. Every nerve was on edge. He was the most dangerous man in Valmont, and here he was — bathing me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Lorenzo…” I whispered, hating how weak it sounded, how my voice trembled.
The sponge paused mid-stroke. He leaned in just slightly, his shadow swallowing the flickering candlelight on the tiles. “Yes?”
I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t ask him to stop, couldn’t beg, couldn’t fight. My throat closed around the words, and in the silence that followed, the only thing louder than my pounding heart was the soft sound of water lapping against porcelain.
He resumed, slower this time, almost tauntingly, as if waiting to see how much I could take before I shattered.
And I hated myself most of all for not moving. For staying there in his hands, caught between fear, humiliation, and something I refused to name.
The sponge fell into the water with a quiet splash. His hand lingered on my shoulder, warm, steady, claiming. “You’re trembling,” he murmured. “Why?”
I gripped my knees to stop the shaking, but the truth spilled anyway, in the quickening of my breath, in the redness of my face, in the way I couldn’t meet his eyes when he shifted to kneel beside the tub.
His gaze burned into me, piercing, searching. And for the briefest second, I thought I saw it. doubt flickering in his icy blue eyes, a man at war with himself.