Between Loyalty and You

Chapter 14 (Sofia's POV)

I didn’t remember him leaving the bed.

One moment I was still trembling against his chest, the residual sting of the flogger and the deep, satisfying ache between my legs keeping me anchored to everything that had just happened. The next, I heard water running. The low sound of him moving through the bathroom with quiet purpose. When he returned he was wearing only black sweatpants, his chest bare, and the expression on his face had shifted from the sharp focus of the dominant who had just taken me apart to something quieter. Careful.

“Come here,” he said.

He didn’t wait for me to find my legs. He lifted me like I weighed nothing, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back, and carried me into the bathroom. The large freestanding tub was already full. Steam rose in soft curls. The air smelled of lavender and something warmer—sandalwood, maybe—essential oils he had clearly chosen for their calming properties. The water was the perfect heat when he lowered me into it.

I hissed softly as the warmth closed over the places the flogger had kissed and the deeper tenderness between my thighs. He didn’t rush me. He simply knelt beside the tub and let me adjust, one hand resting on the edge, watching my face for any real discomfort.

“Too hot?”

“No,” I murmured. “It’s perfect.”

He nodded once, then reached for a soft cloth and a bottle of mild soap. The aftercare of a dominant. I had read about it in vague terms, but experiencing it was different. There was no residual hardness in his movements now. Only deliberate, attentive care.

He started at my shoulders, working the cloth in slow circles, washing away the faint sheen of sweat. His hands moved down my arms, careful around the pink marks the cuffs had left on my wrists. He lifted each hand in turn, pressed a brief kiss to the inside of my wrist, then continued. When he reached my breasts he was gentler still, cleaning the sensitive skin where the falls had landed, thumbs brushing over my n*****s only enough to clean, not to arouse. The consideration in the touch made my throat tighten.

“You don’t have to be this careful,” I said quietly.

“Yes, I do.” His voice was low. “I took a lot from you in that room. This is the other half of it. I don’t get to break you open and then leave you to put yourself back together alone.”

He guided me to lean forward so he could wash my back. The cloth moved in steady, soothing strokes. I closed my eyes and let the heat of the water and the quiet rhythm of his hands pull the last of the sharp edges from my body. When he had me sit back again he moved lower—over my stomach, along the outsides of my thighs, then carefully between them. He cleaned me with the same thorough, non-s****l attention, though the intimacy of it still made my breath catch. The places he had f****d so hard only a short while ago were tender. He was mindful of every wince.

“Color?” he asked softly, the same check-in he had used in the room, now turned gentle.

“Green,” I answered. “Just… sore in the best way.”

A faint, almost reluctant smile touched his mouth. He finished washing me, then reached for a cup and carefully poured clean water over my hair, working a small amount of shampoo through it with strong fingers. The scalp massage nearly pulled a different kind of sound from me. When he rinsed the last of the soap away he simply stayed there, kneeling beside the tub, one forearm resting on the rim, watching me.

The water lapped quietly against the sides. Steam softened the hard lines of his face. For a long moment neither of us spoke. The intensity of what we had done in the other room still lingered between us, but this silence felt different—closer to peace than tension.

Then his eyes met mine fully.

“Your father would kill me if he ever found out about us,” he said. The words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of absolute certainty. “Let alone what I just did to you in that room. The cuffs. The flogger. The way I used you. Marco Russo has buried men for less than touching his daughter. If he knew I had her restrained and marked and coming on my c**k while she called me sir in everything but the word itself… there wouldn’t be enough left of me to bury.”

I didn’t look away. The guilt was clear in his eyes, tangled with the same possessive certainty that had settled there when I told him I didn’t want to walk away.

“I know,” I said.

“Do you?” He reached out and brushed a wet strand of hair from my cheek, fingers lingering. “Because I need you to understand what we’re risking. Not just my life. The alliance between our families. The stability of everything your father and I have built. One wrong word, one careless moment, and it all burns. I accepted that the second I decided I wasn’t letting you go. But you need to accept it too.”

I turned my face into his palm, pressing a slow kiss there.

“I accepted it the night I ordered the lingerie,” I said. “Maybe earlier. I knew what it would cost you. I wanted you anyway.”

His thumb stroked across my lower lip. The water was starting to cool, but neither of us moved to leave it yet.

“I’m not going to stop feeling guilty,” he admitted. “Every time I look at you I’m going to remember that the man who pulled me out of the gutter trusted me with the only family he has left, and I repaid him by claiming his daughter in every way that matters. That guilt is mine to carry. But I will carry it. Because the alternative is giving you up, and I’ve already proven I can’t do that.”

I reached up with a wet hand and cupped the side of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his pulse under my palm.

“Then we carry it together,” I whispered. “And we stay careful. And we don’t let anyone take this from us before we’re ready to face it.”

He leaned in and rested his forehead against mine. The steam curled around both of us. For the first time since the accident, the future didn’t feel like something that would inevitably tear us apart. It felt like something we might actually survive—if we were ruthless enough about protecting it.

“Come on,” he said eventually, voice softer than I had ever heard it. “Water’s getting cold. Let’s get you dry and into bed.”

He helped me stand, wrapped me in a large warm towel, and dried me with the same attentive care he had shown in the bath. When he carried me back to his bed— not the one I had been using since the accident, but his—he settled me against the sheets and climbed in behind me, pulling my back to his chest. One heavy arm draped over my waist. His mouth pressed a quiet kiss to the nape of my neck.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

I closed my eyes, the scent of the oils still clinging to my skin, the deep satisfaction of the scene and the quieter intimacy of the aftercare wrapping around me like another blanket.

My father would kill him if he ever found out.

We both knew it.

And still, neither of us was letting go.