Page 40 of Torment Me Knot
“I'm going to stay here,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “I'll turn around. You won't see me.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then Espie tugs gently on his arm, and he lets her pull him into the bathroom. I turn around. Face the wall. The bed. The duvet crumpled in the corner. Behind me, the sounds of undressing. Fabric rustling. A zipper. Soft murmurs from Sera, too low to make out the words.
Then Aubrey whimpers. My whole body locks up. Every muscle screams at me to turn around, to go to him, to fix whatever's hurting him.
Sera's intake of breath is barely perceptible. A tiny hitch. She's seen something. The scars, maybe. The damage written on their skin.
I stay where I am. Nails digging into my palms. Jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
Stay. Stay. They don't want you. You'll make it worse.
“You're okay.” Sera's voice, low and steady. “I've got you. One arm at a time.”
Every instinct I have screams at me to turn around. To help. To dosomething.My mates are struggling twenty feet behind me and I'm standing here staring at a wall like a useless lump of furniture.
“That's it.” Sera again. “You're doing so well. Almost done.”
Then, finally, the splash of water. One body climbing in, then another. Small sounds of discomfort. A hiss of breath.
“Too hot?” Sera asks.
“N-no.” Espie's voice. Barely a whisper. “It's good. It's—” Her voice breaks. “I like it warm like this.”
Like warm water is a gift and not her normal. I close my eyes. Breathe through my nose. My nails are cutting crescents into my palms.
Sera's voice. “We're in, Lex.”
I turn around and look through the doorway. Sera is in the bath in her underwear, both Omegas cradled against her chest. Espie on her left, Aubrey on her right. Their heads rest against her shoulders. Her arms wrap around them, holding them steady.
Thank the Gods.
They're letting her touch them. Hold them. Care for them. This is huge. Aubrey is cradled against Sera's chest, eyes half-closed, body loose.
She's purring for them, and the thrum of it fills the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles, wrapping around all three of them like a cocoon. The omegas melt into her, their breathing slowing to match the rhythm of her purr. Espie's dark curls fan out across the surface. Aubrey's ash-blond hair is plastered to his forehead, and he looks so young, so fragile, so nothing like the empty shell he has been.
Sera’s gaze meets mine. One look at her and I know she’s thinking the same. Water laps against tan skin. Steam curls around the curve of her shoulder. Her bra has gone transparent in the water, her dark nipples a shadow beneath transparent white cotton. My mouth goes dry. Heat crawls up my neck.
“Lex can help wash you.” Sera holds my gaze. “He'll be quick and gentle. Is that okay?”
Espie's violet eyes flick to me. Her hand tightens on Aubrey's arm under the water.
Aubrey looks at me too. He holds my gaze for one heartbeat. Two. His hand finds Espie's under the water.
“Okay.”
One word. Broken. Barely audible. Aubrey's voice. My throat closes. My eyes burn. I blink hard, fast. I will not cry in front of them. I will not make this about me when they're the ones who need comfort.
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “I'll be careful. I promise.”
I kneel beside the tub. The tile is cold through my pants. I brace my hands on the porcelain edge and focus on the task. The task. Not the skin. Not the steam. Not the way Sera's arms flex when she shifts Aubrey's weight.
My hand shakes as I reach for the shampoo. Aubrey’s scars are impossible to ignore from this close. I’ve seen them before, but standing here, on the verge of touching him, changes something inside me.
His neck bears the evidence of the collar. A ring of raised tissue circling his throat. Axel Turns made him wear a collar so tight it scarred him. Made him crawl in it. Made him kneel at his feet like some sort of slave, instead of the precious gift he is. I've seen the photos. Everyone in Omega advocacy has seen the photos. The broken Omega on his knees at Commissioner Turns' feet.
His back is a map of violence. Pale skin crossed with white lines, some faded to silver, some still pink with healing. Whipscars. I knew they were there. I've glimpsed them before, caught sight of them when the nurses helped him change, catalogued them in the quiet hours when I sat beside his chair and tried not to stare. Knowing doesn't make it easier. Seeing them up close, with my hands about to touch him, is something else entirely.
Espie’s wrists are ringed with scarring. Restraint marks. Layer upon layer, skin rubbed raw and healed and rubbed raw again until the damage became permanent. Her ankles match, the same angry welts.
