I could fight this or lean in.
Lean in.
Embrace his fierce loyalty and learn to be the wife he wants me to be.
Could I?
“Come, little detka,” he says, walking back over to me. “Let’s get you your bath.” I sit up, but he reaches for me first, drawing me to his chest and holding me like a baby. I love this. Oh, it feels nice to be carried by him as he steps toward the bathroom. I let my head fall to his shoulder, my arms strewn about his neck. The nausea is at bay, but my head still pounds.
“Oh, God, the lights,” I groan when we reach the bathroom. He flicks them off so that the only light in the room filters through large windows, daylight illuminating the large tub filled with water and bubbles.
I close my eyes because even the soft natural light makes my head hurt, but soon he’s lowering me into the tub.
“Hold onto the edge,” he says, just before he submerges me in the warm, soothing depths. It feels divine. I’m enveloped in fragrant clouds, warm and soothing. The nausea is better, and the pounding of my head is beginning to lessen.
“That’s a girl,” he says. I’m surprised by the tenderness he shows, this brass, powerful man who commands an army. “You’re being a very good girl.” To my surprise, he strips out of his boxers and steps into the tub with me.
“Come here,” he says. Sitting beside me, he draws me between his legs. My head falls to his shoulder. God, this feels so good, the warmth of the tub, his strong body behind me, holding me to him. “Let’s wash your hair.”
I let him, leaning my head back while he runs warm water over my scalp, massages shampoo into my hair, then rinses it all off with a handheld shower head. I’m shocked at how good it feels being taken care of like this. Though I remember how my mother cared for me, I was so young when she died that I remember very little beyond what she looked like, my memory refreshed by the pictures I still own at home. And of my family members, she’s the only one who could have possibly had a nurturing bone in her body.
When my hair is washed and the water begins to cool, he pulls the drain and stands me up, before draping a thick, plush towel around me.
“That’s my girl,” he says approvingly. “I like that you let me take care of you.”
I like it, too, though I won’t admit it. I lift my chin high. “You didn’t give me much choice.”
He smiles with a twinkle in his eye. “But I did. You could have complied in action alone, but you didn’t. You complied with your spirit as well. And that makes all the difference.”
He needs to take care of me. I’ll remember that as well. It’s in his nature to protect and provide. Though a part of me resists this, my mind warring with my desire to be taken care of and my inner desire to be strong and powerful, there are times like this when it makes sense to allow someone to care for me. Especially if that someone is my husband.
He lays me back down in bed and covers me with a blanket. “Rest, Caroline. I’ll be back in a while to check on you.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I nod, turning over and closing my eyes. A little more sleep sounds delicious. But as I lay there and hear him going about the room, I can’t help but open my eyes and watch him as he lays out clean clothes and shoes. Every once in a while, he looks my way, and each time I pretend I’m sleeping. On his way to the bathroom he walks up to me and gives me a playful slap on the ass.
“Sleep,” he orders.
I listen to the lulling sound of the water in the bathroom and don’t think I’ve actually relaxed enough to drop off, when I hear his shower shut off. I open one eye. My stomach feels a little less queasy, and my head is a little less pained than before. A few moments later, Tomas emerges, still damp from the shower, a towel tucked around his waist sturdy, powerful waist.
“Did you sleep?” he asks, fixing me with a stern gaze as if he wants to be sure I obeyed.
I yawn wildly. “I think so.”
It’s good enough for him. He nods and walks to where he has his clothes hung up beside a chair. I quietly roll to my back and watch him dress.
First, the towel falls to the floor. I swallow hard at the sight before me, and I feel my pulse begin to quicken. This man is a fucking god, from the deep, wide barrel of his chest to the muscled planes and valleys dotted with dark hair. The tattoos complement each other, each one telling a story. He seems oblivious to the way I shameless stare at him, efficiently pulling on trousers, a t-shirt, then sliding into a stark white Oxford shirt.