Page 77 of Sinful Bride

He looks confused, but he doesn't argue. He just stands there, and I step closer, feeling the water soak into my T-shirt and lounge shorts as I step into the shower. I feel ridiculous, but I’m not about to strip off in front of him yet, and if he’s soaked through while dressed, I can be too.

It feels, oddly, like the kind of thing a husband and wife would do. I don’t know how to be that. I’m not sure Declan does, either. But all of a sudden, it feels like we’re trying.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers are shaking, and the fabric is soaked, making the buttons difficult to work. Blood has stained the white cotton rust-red in places, and I try not to think about whose blood it is, whether it's his or someone else's.

"It's not mine," he says, reading my mind. "Most of it, anyway."

"Most of it?"

"I got hit a few times. Nothing serious. He scraped me with a knife, but it stopped bleeding before I got home."

I get the first button undone. Then the second. The shirt falls open, revealing his chest. My pulse picks up at the sight of the dark, dangerous-looking tattoos inked across his skin, the chiseled muscles carved into his body. A dark bruise is blooming along his ribs, and another on his shoulder.

"That doesn't look like nothing."

"I've had worse."

I'm sure he has. But that doesn't make it easier to see. I push the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the tile with a wet slap. His skin is warm under my hands, slick with water, and I can feel his heart beating too fast, like he's been running.

Or like he's afraid.

Or…

"Elena." His voice is strained. "You don't have to⁠—"

"I know." I reach for his belt. "I want to."

His breath catches. I can feel the tension in him, coiled tight, like he's holding himself back from something. From reaching for me, maybe… or from pushing me away.

I unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants. The zipper sticks because of the water, and I have to work it down slowly. My knuckles brush against his stomach, and I feel him tense. "What happened tonight?" I ask quietly, focusing on the zipper instead of his face.

For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he says slowly, "I offered to help the Capettis with a shipment."

My hands still. "What about it?"

"It was ambushed." His voice is flat. "Nearly all the men I sent are dead. Seven of them. One is critical, but Cormac doesn’t think he’ll make it. Because I thought I could do things differently. Because I thought I could prove I belong in this world."

The zipper finally gives. I push his pants down over his hips, and he steps out of them, kicking them aside. He's naked now except for his boxer briefs, and those are soaked through too, clinging to him in a way that would be obscene if I weren't so focused on his words.

Seven men dead.

"It's not your fault," I say softly.

"Isn't it?" He laughs, bitter and harsh. "I sent them there. I made the offer to help. I thought—" He breaks off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. They're dead because of me."

I look up at him. Water streams down his face, and I can't tell if it's just the shower or if there are tears mixed in. His jaw is tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"You were trying to do the right thing.”

"The right thing got seven men killed."

"You couldn't have known⁠—"

"I should have." His voice cracks. "I should have seen it coming. Should have been smarter. Should have—fuck, I don't know. Done something other than what I did."

He turns away from me, bracing his hands against the shower wall, his head bowed. The water beats down on his shoulders, his back, washing away the last traces of blood. But it can't wash away the guilt. I can see it in every line of his body, in the way he's holding himself like he's trying not to break.

"I can't do this," he says quietly. "I can't lead these men. Can't navigate this world. Can't even be what my wife needs me to be. I'm failing at everything, Elena. Everything."