After a couple of years of wiping down in a tiny sink and occasionally being allowed to stand under a cold spray for a few minutes, watched by colder-eyed guards, the vacation house's criminally-acquired shower felt like…well, heaven, and not reality at all.
Even with those awful little seashells on the shower curtain. Hell, after ten minutes of hot water flowing in luxurious, unthinkable quantities through my hair and down my back and around my legs, I could've kissed the fucking seashells. And whoever had hung the shower curtain. And whoever had built the shower.
I'd set the phone down, stood up, and gone straight to the bathroom, ignoring Calder's glare and mentally telling the rest of the world to fuck off.
I needed some space. I needed some time.
I needed to feel clean for the first time in years, washing off whatever residue was left of my prison and also the knowledge that Calder had already washed me.
