Page 87 of Heimlock

Her face pales even further, but she nods. Keeping my actions clinical, I carefully clean off the dirt and blood. She’s quiet, so the only sounds are the falling water and our heavy breaths. I think she’s just as afraid as I am; that should give me comfort, but it doesn’t.

The more I learn about Kyrielle, the more I desperately want to protect her. She’s brilliant, fierce, mischievous, and has one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever witnessed. At the mere idea of hurting her, I want to plummet to my death.

With each section of her body, I tell her ahead of time what I’m going to do. Tears stream down her face the entire time, face ruddy with shame. I can’t fix how she feels; all I can do is give her as much dignity as possible.

When her skin is pink and clean, it’s time to wash her hair. I look at the edge of the bathtub. “Do you think you could sit? I can stand, but you’re probably tired of standing.”

“Yeah. Help?”

“Of course.”

She spins and I carefully guide her to sit on a towel I’ve folded over the edge, mindful of her crooked wing. “I’m going to put shampoo in your hair now, okay?”

“Okay.”

After pouring it along her orange tresses, I work the shampoo into the wet strands. When my fingers methodically massage her scalp, she lets out a sinful moan. Ignoring the sound, I continue until her shoulders lower, inch by inch.

“Let’s wash this out real quick and I’ll do the conditioner next, okay?”

“Okay.”

I help her stand and gently tilt her head into the ridiculously hot shower, working the suds out until her hair is clean. After reseating her, I start with the conditioner. I’ve never played with a woman’s hair, let alone bathed one, but it’s more soothing than I would’ve expected.

She breaks the silence by asking, “Can I ask my second question?”

My fingers freeze and I frown at the back of her head. “Are you sure you want to do that right now?” Kyrielle nods, and I try to ignore the building dread. “Alright, what is it?”

There’s a few moments of silence, then she says, “Why don’t you throw away the expired food in your kitchen?”

I don’t know what exactly I expected her to ask, but it wasn’t that. The chuckle comes easily this time. “You get a total of five questions, and that’s the one?”

She shrugs her good shoulder. “You had a lot of expired food, Trinte.”

Another chuckle rumbles in my chest, because she’s not wrong. “This is a judgment free zone, correct?”

“Very correct.”

After last night, I thought there’d be some negative effects of sharing. But since admitting to her about one of my rapes, I’m lighter in some regards. So sharing, no holds barred, feels like the right thing to do.

Still massaging her scalp, I say, “My father was not — is not — a good man. He blamed me for the death of his wife, and as such, made it a daily point to remind me.”

“His wife wasn’t your mom?”

My hands still. A ringing fills my ears, pressure building immediately. “She was my mother.”

Kyrielle tries to look at me, and I place a hand on her shoulder, effectively stopping her. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“But …” Her voice wobbles. “How could you have killed your mother?”

My teeth clench, refusing to puke up these truths. I open my mouth, then close it.

Try again.

Fail.

Try again.

Fail.