As if I weighed nothing at all, he carried me under the spray. His white shirt and navy shorts became sodden, and his dark hair went from styled to the side to flat against his forehead. He looked so much younger this way. At times I forgot we were the same age. He always seemed so much older.
Arthur sat me on the stall’s ledge and reached for the shampoo on the corner shelf. He poured some into his hand and started washing my long dark hair. I winced when he brushed over a bruise that was forming on my scalp, where the attackers had yanked my hair back. Arthur’s hands stopped moving, and he exhaled a long, steady breath. He resumed washing my hair, but this time he was softer, more careful, so gentle in his touch and tenderness that tears welled in my eyes. As I tipped my head back, the tears spilled onto my cheeks, dripping down my neck and melding with the hot water.
I closed my eyes, to try and stop them, to not show any weakness in front of such a strong and formidable man. Arthur pulled away, clearly seeing my tears. I opened my eyes, and when I did, he was staring at me like he never had before. His steel eyes seemed softer somehow, sympathetic. His head tilted to the side, and he placed both hands on my face, careful of my hurt cheek.
With the touch of feather, he smudged the tears from my skin with his thumbs. I swallowed at the heaviness of the moment. The touch of his hands on my face was like a balm to my severed nerves, to the fear that was coursing so thickly in my veins that my entire body ached.
Arthur’s white shirt had turned transparent, and through the material I saw his ripped muscles and haunting black tattoos. The London skyline on his torso appeared sinister and gothic—the London of old, Victorian, eerie.
He stayed silently before me as I shed tear after tear, exorcising the images of the attackers, their unwanted touches. When they had run dry, he took the shower head and rinsed off my hair.
He grabbed a flannel from the shelf, covered it with body wash and bent down until he was at my eye level. I held out my arms, and Arthur ran the flannel over my reddened skin. My breathing grew more laboured with every stroke he made. He moved the flannel over my neck and down over my breasts. I was breathless as he skimmed over my flesh, but he never once looked at me with desire. Not in this moment. He was caring for me after an attack. And I was drawn to him all the more for it.
Arthur dragged the flannel down my legs and over my feet. As he stood back up, he hooked his arm around my waist and turned me around. With one arm keeping me steady, he ran the flannel over my back and then down over my backside and the tops of my thighs.
I fought back tears of both sorrow and relief. Sorrow for the attack, but relief that Arthur had saved me. Turning me back to sit on the ledge, Arthur brought the shower head to me and rinsed off the soap.
Who was this man? The man who had just killed four others in front of me, without exertion or guilt. The sadistic man who had forced someone to castrate himself as I watched. And now he was here, caring for me like a saint, when we all knew he was anything but.
Arthur carried me from the shower and wrapped an oversized bath sheet around me. He placed me on the bed, and then ducked back into the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, blocking Arthur from view. But when I lifted my eyes, I saw his reflection in the fog-free mirror. I saw every inch of him as he tossed off his shirt and shorts. I swallowed as his lightly tanned body came into perfect view. Then he removed his boxers, and I felt my cheeks flush as he moved fully before the mirror, totally bared, running a towel through his dark hair.
My breathing came heavy, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He was tall and ripped and tattooed and more than well-endowed. Arthur wiped the lenses of his glasses on a cloth and placed them back on his face. Before I could