Page 26 of Hush, Little Baby

I reach for him, and he tries to shrink away, but there’s nowhere to go. I gather him up in my arms, careful but unyielding, and lift him from the bed. He doesn’t scream. He barely even whimpers. His whole body just tenses, rigid as a plank, and the silent tears start up again, streaming down his cheeks in thin, glittering lines. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it hurt him more not to fight.

I hold him for a moment, his arms pinned between us, and wait for the shuddering to ease. When I’m sure he won’t try to claw my face off, I walk him into the bathroom.

It’s a proper king’s bath—marble, glass, chrome, and heated floors. A freestanding tub the size of a baptismal font, rimmed by a pair of plush towels and every soap and lotion the hotel could imagine. The lights are soft, indirect, casting everything in a golden haze. I set him down on the small settee and crouch to his level, careful not to loom.

He will not look at me, so I focus on his hands. I take them gently, one at a time, and check for tremors. He’s shaking, but not out of anger. It’s fear, plain as day. It makes me want to shush and soothe him, but I know if I crowd him now, it’ll only snap the last of his self-control. Instead, I busy myself with the tub—turning the dial, testing the water, letting the space fill up with steam and the faintest whiff of honeysuckle bath oil.

Charlie sits where I placed him, gaze locked unblinking on the marble floor tiles. His sweatpants have slipped to his ankles in our transit, showing off more of those pale, downy thighs, the blue briefs stretched tight across the curve of him. His hands remain balled in his lap, white-knuckled, as if the only thing holding him together is the tension in his fingers.

I kneel in front of him and slowly reach for his sweatpants.

He jerks away. “Don’t—”

He kicks at me, a wild, instinctive rabbit thump that glances off my thigh before I clamp his legs together at the knee. It’s the only fight he’s shown me yet, and it thrills me. If I hadn’t been ready, he could have cracked my kneecap. I let him struggle, let him hiss and try to twist away, even as his hands flutter up to block my progress.

His voice comes out raw, more animal than man, “Don’t touch me, you—!” He bites down on the word, lips white and trembling. He looks up, finally, and I see the hate in his eyes. It’s a childish, panicked hate, the kind that can only last as long as his terror outweighs his exhaustion. I want to bottle it.

I catch his wrists easily in one hand, pinning them to his chest. With my other hand, I hook the waistband of his underwear and tug gently, not enough to rough the skin or leave a mark, but enough to show that it’s happening on my terms.

He twists his wrists, trying to break my grip, but he may as well be wrestling handcuffs. This only frustrates him further; the next kick is less focused and more desperate, heel scraping along my thigh.

“Let me go,” he snaps, his breath stuttering with each word.

I just shake my head, patient as a priest with a squirming penitent. “No, sweetheart. You’ll only end up hurting yourself. I promise, it’ll be easier if you let me do it.”

His jaw works, and I’m almost certain he’s going to try to bite. Instead, his face crumples in a last-ditch effort to look mean and not terrified. “You can’t just… just take my clothes off,” he chokes out. “I am helping you,” I say. The words are simple, as if said to a child, and I wait for him to spit on me, to call me a monster, to do anything but sit there with his lips pressed tight, eyes squeezed shut. But all the fight seems to leak out as the pants and briefs come away, leaving him naked except for his bunched-up hoodie, his pale thighs quivering from the cold air and the humiliation. He yanks one hand free of my hold just long enough to try to cover himself, but his palm is too small, the gesture more gesture than shield. I catch his wrist again and hold both arms together gently at his sternum.

“You’re cold,” I murmur, and I am only partly lying. The bathroom’s radiant floor keeps the worst of it away, but I know how bare skin can feel under scrutiny, how exposing a body can conjure a chill even in a sauna. I leave him shivering while I finish drawing the bath, swirling in enough oil to make the water shimmer back gold and blue under the lights. I reach over and test the warmth with my own hand. It is perfect, a little too hot for most, but not enough to sting.

When I stand, Charlie stays curled in on himself, hands clamped over his groin, gaze fixed on the side of the tub, spatially aware of me but refusing to make eye contact. The surrender would be touching if it weren’t so bitterly earned.

“Up,” I say, gentle but with a finality that is not to be tested.

He freezes, then uncurls his legs. The motion is unsteady and awkward, as if his limbs have only recently been attached. He stands, clutching the hem of his hoodie down to cover what little it can, knees wobbling, face set in a blankness I find almost endearing. The cheeks are still wet, tears tracing down to his jawline before dropping to the hollow of his throat, where they cling like pearls before dropping to the marble below.

He tries to sidle along the tiled edge of the tub, putting an extra foot of distance between us, but I block his route with a palm on his shoulder.

“Please,” he says, voice so small I almost doubt I heard it. “Can I… can I do it myself?” His eyes flick up in a desperate, searching way. I imagine he’s hoping I have a soft spot for dignity, or maybe that I enjoy the show of him pretending to be tough. He’s wrong on both counts.

“No, sweetheart,” I say, as gently as I can.

He looks down, swallowing hard. “Please?” he tries again, and the hope in his voice is so thin it’s almost transparent. “I can, I swear. I’ll be quick. I won’t—I won’t try to escape or anything.”

I shake my head. “I can’t allow that while you’re worked up like this, baby.”

He looks stricken, but then the spark of anger flares briefly in his eyes before dying again. “Why?”

“I need to make sure you’re safe and taken care of,” I answer, and I say it very, very softly.

He doesn’t have a response to that, so instead, he lets me guide him to the side of the tub. I reach for the hem of his hoodie, fingers brushing the worn cotton, and Charlie’s hands dart down, clutching the fabric in place even tighter.

“Don’t,” he pleads, voice hitching. “I’ll get in with it on. You don’t have to—”

I put one palm on his shoulder and use the other to pry his hands away. His grip is surprisingly strong; it takes effort. But in the end, his arms are forced forward, wrists pinned awkwardly in front of his ribs.

I strip the hoodie over his head in one careful motion. He doesn’t resist, not really, though his breath hitches with the indignity of it. As soon as he’s free, he immediately crosses one arm over his belly, the other hand darting down to shield his cock.

He stands before me, hunched, knees knocked together. The pale canvas of his body is mottled with evidence of his hardships—stretch marks, silvery at the hips, pelvis, and upper arms, a scattering of faded bruises on his thighs, and a rash of tiny red pits along his jaw and neck, probably from stress.