She could hear his heartbeat where her ear rested over his heart. It was steady now, but earlier... earlier he’d sounded like a man fraying at the edges. Like the mont he saw her on that stretcher had stolen all the air from his lungs.
Nicholas pressed a soft kiss to the side of her face. "You ready to get out?"
Ella nodded against him, though her limbs felt heavy with the kind of exhaustion that burrowed deeper than physical pain. She let him move first, his body rising from the water, droplets sliding down the contours of his chest and arms. He grabbed a plush towel from the nearby warr, wrapped it around his waist, then turned back to help her.
He held out his hands.
She hesitated again—still shy, still aching—but placed her fingers in his.
He stood there like a fortress made of warmth and patience, steady and quiet as he lifted her from the water with careful hands. The air was cooler now, goosebumps rising on her arms, and the sudden awareness of her bruised body returned.
Her instinct was to turn away, to hide—but Nicholas didn’t let her. He wrapped her in a fresh, oversized towel and tucked her into his chest as if shielding her from the chill, from the mirror, from her own sha. His palm ca up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading gently through damp strands of her hair.
"You’re safe," he murmured.
Tears pricked behind her eyes—not from pain, not from fear. Just from the unbearable gentleness in his voice.
Nicholas guided her toward the vanity stool beside the sink and helped her sit. Then he knelt in front of her, gently patting her skin dry, section by section. His touch was never hurried. He dried her feet, then her calves, the insides of her knees, always checking her expression for signs of pain. It was like he was cataloguing every mark on her skin, morizing where it hurt so he could be gentler next ti.
He switched to a second warm towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, then dried her hair in slow, rhythmic strokes, his fingers massaging her scalp lightly as he worked.
Ella’s eyes fluttered shut. No one had ever taken care of her like this. Not like she mattered. Not like her body was worth tending to—not despite her injuries, but because of them.
Nicholas leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple again, the towel still between them.
"Stay there," he said softly.
She obeyed, watching in the mirror as he crossed the room and opened a drawer in the wardrobe. He pulled out one of his shirts—a white cotton button-down—and a pair of silk sleep shorts in blush pink. Nothing that would press too hard against her ribs.
He returned with them in hand.
"I figured this might feel better than a bra," he said, eyes skimming over her towel-wrapped form. "If you want sothing else..."
"This is perfect," she said, her voice a little hoarse.
He helped her dress, beginning with the sleep shorts, lifting her feet one at a ti, sliding the fabric gently up her legs. She held his shoulders for balance, leaning into him as he pulled the shorts over her hips. Then he slipped the shirt over her arms and buttoned it slowly, leaving the top few undone so nothing brushed too close to her bruised collarbone.
He even rolled the sleeves back for her.
When he was done, he knelt again, just for a mont, and rested his forehead lightly against her knees.
"You scared the hell out of , Ella."
She ran her fingers gently through his damp hair.
"I know," she whispered. "I scared myself."
He looked up at her, and she caught sothing raw behind his usually composed gaze. Nicholas Carter—the man the world saw as powerful, untouchable—looked like he was on the verge of falling apart.
"You could’ve died," he said, voice gravel-thick. "And I wouldn’t have been there to stop it."
She reached down and cradled his face in both hands. "But I didn’t. I’m here. I ca back to you."
Nicholas exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut beneath her touch.
Then, without another word, he rose and scooped her into his arms again.
She didn’t protest this ti.
He carried her back into the bedroom and settled her onto the bed like she was sothing fragile—sothing he’d spent the last twenty-four hours praying not to lose. The sheets were cool against her skin, the duvet freshly washed, the lighting low and golden.
Nicholas climbed in beside her, but didn’t reach for her right away. He sat with his back against the headboard and pulled her gently against his chest, propping her up so she wouldn’t strain her ribs. His arms slid around her waist, and she tucked herself beneath his chin, exhaling against the warm cotton of his shirt.
"I think I need to sleep for a week," she murmured.
"You will," he promised, brushing her hair back from her face. "You’ll rest. I’ll make sure of it."
"What about work?"
"It’s already cleared. You’re off until you say otherwise. And I’m not leaving your side."
"You have etings..."
"They’ll wait."
She turned her face up to look at him. "You don’t have to—"
"I do," he said firmly. "I want to."
She searched his expression, as if looking for cracks in his resolve. There weren’t any. He ant every word.
Ella’s throat tightened.
"I’ve never had this before," she whispered. "Soone... staying. Wanting to."
Nicholas leaned down, forehead resting against hers.
"You have it now," he said. "You have ."
They lay there in silence for a while, wrapped in cotton and quiet, the hum of city lights just beyond the windows. Nicholas’s hand traced slow, absent-minded circles against her lower back, grounding her. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek was the safest rhythm she’d ever known.
At so point, he reached for a blanket and tucked it more snugly around her. Not because she asked. Just because he noticed.
And Ella—bruised, aching, wrapped in the arms of the man who loved her—closed her eyes and let herself drift.
She was ho.
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