Page 77 of Vows of Ruin

No one argues. We never do when he sounds like that. Gear hits the floor, weapons clatter against the table, footsteps scatter up the stairs. The house swallows it all, leaving behind only the hum of exhaustion and the faint smell of smoke still clinging to our clothes.

I make it to the bathroom and let the door click shut behind me. Steam curls against the mirror as the shower warms, fog swallowing the reflection of my face, eyes rimmed red from too many hours awake.

I brace my hands on the sink and let my breath catch up. For a second, it feels like I’m hearing the echoes of the girls we saved, the fear, the breaking, the small sounds of relief when it was finally over. The door opens quietly behind me.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Liam says, voice roughened by the drive.

“You didn’t.”

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The air changes. Heavy, but not dangerous. Familiar.

“You okay?”

“I will be.”

He comes up behind me, our eyes meeting in the fogged mirror. His reflection looks as tired as I feel, dark circles, shirt half-unbuttoned, the faint hint of stubble against his jaw.

“That needs to be cleaned and changed,” he murmurs, nodding to the cut above my eyebrow.

“It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.”

He reaches for me before I can argue, fingers gentle and he removes the old gauze and starts to check stitches and clean up dried blood. His touch is steady, sure, the same hands that can break bone now moving like they’re afraid to bruise me.

“Liam…”

He looks me in the eyes.

“You don’t have to keep fixing me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, breath ghosting across my cheek. “You think I can stop?”

The heat of the shower fogs the mirror completely now, turning our reflections to silhouettes. He presses a kiss just below my ear, soft and grounding.

I step into the shower, letting the sting settle into my skin. The water is almost too hot, but I don’t turn it down.

Liam steps in behind me. “Fuck, that’s hot!”

“Sorry,” I giggle, reaching for the handle, turning it down… Barely.

His hand finds the small of my back as he reaches for the soap. He lathers his palms and runs them over my shoulders, slow, careful. The scent of cedar and smoke fills the air, familiar and grounding.

When his fingers slide through my hair, working the shampoo in gentle circles, my eyes close on their own. He’s done this before, after raids, after bloodshed, after everything. His knuckles graze my scalp, and the world goes quiet except for the sound of running water and his low hum.

“You always forget to take care of yourself,” he says softly.

“That’s why I have you.”

The corners of his mouth lift in a satisfied smile. As he rinses the suds from my hair, he pauses for a brief moment, staring into my eyes, as if to make sure I’m really there.

Max joins us, moving through the steam like he belongs to it. He slides in front of me, grinning easy but eyes dark with the same exhaustion. “Hand me that,” he tells Liam. “You missed a spot.”

He takes the bar from Liam and starts working it across my arms, over the faint bruises that line my skin. The soap leaves thin white trails before the water carries them away. Max doesn’t speak after that; he doesn’t have to. His touch says everything: care, relief, the quiet promise that we’re still in one piece.

Liam’s hand finds mine beneath the spray, fingers threading through. The three of us stand like that, chests and backs, pressed against one another, letting the water beat down.

For once, there’s no rush. No orders. Just the warmth of skin, the steady rhythm of breath, and the strange, fragile peace that comes from being together and alive. When the water cools, Max reaches up and turns off the tap. Steam rolls past us in lazy curls. Liam presses a kiss to my damp hair; Max rests his forehead against mine. None of us speaks. We don’t need to. The silence feels like something holy.