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He’d told her it would be good, that they would find the city and cure her, but Helen couldn’t find it in herself to believe that. She’d always thought her death would come in some strange burst of glory, some bravado that while she’d been warned off it, she’d still thrust herself into headfirst. A shot to the head, perhaps, or an explosion. She was fond of explosion as a way to go. No need for her body to slumber underground until she was nothing more than dust and bones like Griffin or Watson.
But Will, believer and idealist that he was, simply couldn’t believe it to be true. To him, she’d always be there beautiful and unassailable, as much a part of the Sanctuary’s architecture as a flying buttress or a parapet. He worshiped her, once, but Helen could see now that it had morphed into something different, that his respect and awe, while still present, had been layered with a different shade of meaning that she simply couldn’t wrap her head around.
It was rare that Helen Magnus couldn’t wrap her head around something.
He’d offered her his hand and she’d taken it, squeezing it hard to mask the tremble in her own. He didn’t mention the tremble either, merely giving her a smile and tugging her down the hallways until they came to the juncture that meant either that he was going to leave her, perhaps with another squeeze to her hand and a soft smile, or he was going to come with, going to deepen this relationship in some manner that Helen imagined wouldn’t leave either of them unscathed. She didn’t know which she hoped for.
She wanted him to take her to bed. Was it wrong to want that? She didn’t want it to be.
He tugged her toward her room and she followed, the words exchanged between them in his office seemingly all that would pass at the moment. She’d never had a problem with companionable silence and gave him a smile that she hoped conveyed her permission and, if she were honest with herself, pleading. She didn’t want to be an invalid. She wanted to be beautiful, terrible, powerful and strange and she never wanted to be seen as fragile.
She never wanted Will to see her as fragile.
He drew a bath, holding up two vials of bath oil. Juniper or vanilla. She nodded toward juniper, not wanting the artificial sweet of vanilla in this moment that was anything but artificial. He nodded and tipped it in, hot water sending the scent through the room and steam curling into the air. That done, he turned to her, fingertips gentle as he undid her coat, soft as they slid against her skin to pull away her blouse, her trousers. It was erotic, what he was doing, but unintentionally so; his touches were so gentle and so unassuming that Helen felt completely safe and outside herself.
She hadn’t felt that way in quite a while.
His hands were soothing and she closed her eyes, settling back in the bath and letting him massage her palms. She let out a little sigh when he cupped water into his hands and bathed her breasts, then her stomach, careful not to open any of the still-fresh wounds Adam had left on her or to press too hard into bruises he’d left as parting gifts. His fingers slid down her thighs, gliding and touching and exploring but never going too far, never crossing a line. Juniper still hung in the air even when the touches stopped and Helen opened her eyes, frowning a little when Will was just watching her. He must like to watch, she thought. It wasn’t a bad thing.
She’d always known he’d like to watch.
He dried her gently and combed out her hair, fingers tangling in the curls far more than necessary. He liked her hair, she’d known that for a while, and yet something she’d always thought inherently tied to his sexual attraction to her had gone gentle, had become something to soothe her instead of arouse her and while she understood his intentions his actions had the unintended effect; she wanted him, and badly. He drew her close and laid his face against the hollow of her neck and shoulder, lips ghosting lightly against her skin.
He wanted her too.
No words passed, not now, and perhaps if she came out all right in the end they would have that conversation. For now, he slid his hand in hers and squeezed tight enough that she could feel calluses on his fingertips and palm, little reminders that while he’d changed her and melted the ice around her, she’d changed him too. He was wind and water, chipping away at the stone wall of her resolve and eventually even she had to succumb to that. She just didn’t realize it’d be now, when things were dire.
She’d wanted it when it was happy. Things never worked that way.
He nudged her against the bed, silk sheets cool against the back of her thighs and a sharp contrast to the flush she felt in her skin. Was that fever or arousal? Did she care either way? His fingers against her bare skin again, questing and searching and never assuming and Helen smiled at him and slid her thighs apart, as much of an invitation as she could give him now. Words seemed too blunt for this, not when caresses and soft sounds passed as language between them. She didn’t remember him undressing, not when he was sliding between her thighs and cupping her hips with his hands, lips and tongue sliding against her in a maddening tease.
She tugged at his hair when it was all too much, when she felt her careful control spiraling away and he didn’t stop, merely pressed his fingers into her and slid his tongue faster until she was a sobbing mess beneath him and his hands were brushing away tears even as he slid into her, hips pressed flush to hers. Her fingers curled against his shoulders and pressed in hard when he moved, their rhythm haphazard and no less perfect in this most imperfect of times. She’d wanted it perfect. She wanted…everything.
“I love you.”
Words that were unnecessary, yet still wanted, and the only thing that seemed appropriate. Her response was breathy and half mumbled, but she still felt the smile against her skin as he pulled away.
“I know.”