She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 928

Giselle closed her eyes, drawing in a long, shuddering breath. Stepping up to him, she reached out and began unbuttoning his ruined shirt.

She peeled the soaked, blood-crusted fabric off his shoulders, balled it up, and tossed it onto the vanity. Turning on her heel, she reached for the showerhead.

"I'm still wearing my pants. How am I supposed to wash?" Hank leaned against the tiled wall, glancing down at his waist before offering her a look of utter, calculated innocence.

Grinding her teeth, Giselle knelt slightly and began unbuttoning his slacks. As she pulled the zipper down, her knuckles accidentally brushed against the hard planes of his lower abdomen. The muscles beneath his skin instantly went completely rigid.

Her hand froze, but she didn't pull away. Inhaling sharply, she grasped the waistband and slowly dragged the soaked fabric down his legs. The material clung stubbornly to his skin, grazing the mutilated flesh on his knee, forcing her to maneuver with agonizing caution.

Hank finally stepped under the stream of water, wearing nothing but a pair of dark boxer briefs. He chuckled softly. "Are you really going to make me shower in my underwear? This is incredibly uncomfortable."

Giselle's face burned crimson.

He wasn't finished. "It's not like you haven't seen it all before. We already have a child together. What's the big deal with helping me out?"

"Say one more word, and I will smash this showerhead directly into your face," she hissed.

Hank instantly shut his mouth.

Giselle lowered her gaze, her eyes tracing the fresh, brutal lacerations scattered across his body, inevitably landing on the faded, jagged scars from his violent past. A deep, tender ache blossomed in her chest. Just as Hank was about to break the silence and offer to call someone else for help, her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down.

For a split second, Hank was absolutely stunned.

The tables had turned; suddenly, he was the one feeling completely flushed.

Checking the water temperature one last time, Giselle began running the warm spray over his battered body. She meticulously avoided his fresh wounds, focusing only on washing away the mud and grit plastered to his skin.

As her delicate, soft hands ran across the hard expanse of his chest and down his broad back, Hank's breathing grew audibly ragged.

"Turn around," she commanded softly.

He didn't move. Leaning against the wall, he simply bowed his head, his dark eyes locked onto her.

The water continued to cascade down, filling the cramped bathroom with thick, heavy steam that blurred the edges of the room—and blurred the strict, invisible boundaries they had maintained for so long.

"Hank, turn around," she repeated. But her voice was barely a whisper this time, entirely stripped of its authority.

Suddenly, he reached out with one of his heavily bandaged hands and grabbed her wrist—the one holding the showerhead.

She let out a soft, defeated sigh.

The sound was so faint it was nearly entirely masked by the rushing water, but Hank caught it. His entire body went rigid. Terrified that she was about to deliver a rejection, he rushed to cut her off. "Never mind. I don't want to hear it."

Giselle stared into his eyes. "I'll give you a chance."

The showerhead slipped from her grasp, clattering loudly against the tiles, spraying water wildly across the floor.

Hank froze for two agonizing seconds before utterly losing control. Using his heavily bandaged hands, he framed her face, gripping her with a fierce, desperate possession. The rough texture of the gauze scraped against her cheekbones, stinging slightly.

Giselle didn't pull away. He crushed his lips against hers.

Like a starving beast that had fully accepted it would never taste food again, suddenly finding the cage door cracked open—he kissed her with brutal, ravenous intensity. His tongue forcefully parted her lips, invading her mouth. The faint, metallic tang of blood mingled with the steamy air as he mercilessly devoured her, refusing to give her a single second to breathe. Refusing to give her a chance to back out. Refusing to let her go.

Her back slammed against the cold, wet tiles. He quickly slid his hand behind her head to cushion the impact. The gauze wrapping his hands was completely soaked through. Her fingers dug desperately into his broad shoulders, her nails biting into his skin—whether she was trying to push him away or pull him impossibly closer, she didn't even know. He didn't give her the luxury of thinking.

The water continued to pour down, drenching them completely, swirling around their feet before rushing down the drain, carrying away the blood, the dirt, and the years of agonizing separation.

The steam in the bathroom grew thicker, entirely fogging over the mirror. Their silhouettes blurred into a single, inseparable shadow through the haze, rendering it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.