He hadn’t nuzzled my neck as he used to, hadn’t shown me his usual affection. He’d merely pulled out of me, leaving me limp on the bed, then started on buckles and straps.
Once he’d removed everything, my arms and jaw were sore. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do or say.
Without a word, he scooped me up and into the bathroom, turning on the shower. In the tangle of my mind, one thought stood out. Nothing has changed.
I was still stuck in this hopeless relationship, devoid of trust and sharing. Except that now, he seemed even more distanced.
There is nothing left of me. What had he meant by that? Did he mean that he’d come his brains out and was empty?
Or that this was all I’d ever get from him? Beyond sex, there was nothing?
I plumbed my emotions and recognized that I was feeling . . . despair.
He carried me into the shower, easing me to my feet to stand with him under the spray of hot water. He poured bath oil into his palms, washing me with his bare hands. “Let me tend to you,” he murmured as he laved my body with such familiarity, as if we’d been together for years.
As a husband would a wife. Like two people who trusted each other.
His detachment dwindled—he couldn’t seem to hold on to it—and soon soothing Russian endearments spilled from his lips. With zero hesitation, he saw to every inch of my body, inside and out, even my bottom.
I would be sore tomorrow, but he hadn’t hurt me. At least, not physically. My eyes pricked with tears.
Once he’d finished with me, he turned to soaping his own body, giving himself a cursory rubdown.
Tears kept forming. I didn’t cry often; God knew I was an ugly crier. I squeezed my eyes shut, resenting every drop that escaped, cursing the tremble in my bottom lip.
“Natalie?” His tone aghast, he demanded, “What is this?” He grasped my cheeks, lifting my face. “Why are you crying?”
I opened my eyes but said nothing. Let him see how it feels.
“I’ve . . . hurt you?” He looked furious with himself, releasing me to ball his fists. “It was too much.”
Tears continued to spill.
“Ah, God, milaya.” He dragged me against his chest, coiling his arm around my nape. Locking me against him, he launched his other fist against the marble. Again and again.
Trapped like this, I could do nothing but wait. Nothing but feel . . .
His muscles moving against me. His chest shuddering with breaths.
I sensed his need to punish, to deliver pain. And for the first time, I realized that the invisible enemy he wanted to strike . . . was himself.
I whispered, “Stop, Sevastyan.”
To my amazement, he did. “I would rather die than hurt you like this.”
I believed him. “I’m not h-hurt.” Tears continued to spill, belying my words. “You didn’t hurt my body.”
“Then I scared you. I’ve made you cry. Tell me how to fix this, and I’ll do it. Anything except letting you go. That I can never do.”
“No, you won’t fix this. You had chances to, but nothing has changed.” I pushed away from him. “Just leave me alone.”
Of course he wouldn’t. He took my wrist, drawing me out of the shower. Reaching for a towel, he began drying off my shoulders and arms, my belly. He knelt, rubbing my legs as if I was the most precious thing in the world. With a kiss against my hip, he said, “It’s been decades since I’ve felt shame like this.”
Shame is more painful than blows. That only made me cry harder.
He rested his forehead against my belly. “You are gutting me, love. You want to leave—you have reason to—but I can’t let you go any more than I can quit breathing.”
Now what was I going to do? Nothing has changed.