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I stared down at the space where my beautiful oriental rug had laid for twenty years prior. The wood wasn't scuffed. It was just like new, not ravished by heels or dust. Or blood. My eyes behind crooked glasses flittered to the stain by the right leg of the coffee table. I set the bucket of cold water and dish detergent down. It had grown heavy in my shaking hands as I had stood there. I had already blotted the excess of the blood away with a cloth, but that had taken a few minutes, and I knew that the blood had probably soaked in by now.

I dropped to my knees and dampened the cloth. With quick hard strokes, I wiped at the blood. It was lifting. Heavy tears slid down my nose, splatting against the wood. I was glad and rinsed the red from the cloth and went at it again. Hard strokes. Back and forth. Back and forth. The blood wasn't lifting anymore - it was a dark brown and I scrubbed harder, a sob escaping me as I did. I needed to get it out. It needed to come out. Frustrated, I threw the rag in the bucket, falling onto my butt in defeat; it had stained.

The back door opened and shut with a creak. I heard his footsteps grow near, but I didn't look -not until he spoke.

"Imogen," his voice was tired. I looked over my shoulder. He was covered in mud. It caked on his trousers and was smeared up to his forearms. He even got some on his face and in his blond hair. The blood stuck out; the red is bright against the mud and on his shirt. A bit still stained his mouth, chin, and his jaw, where it had dribbled hot and slick down his neck.

"It is done," He said, stepping closer to me. I averted my eyes back to the bucket, and bubbles popped softly against the cool temperature in the room. 

"It stained; I can't get it out," My busted lip flared up as I spoke, "looks like I have to buy another rug."

"I thought that was the plan all along."

"It was."

A silence crept between us. It was so deafening that when he spoke next, it had startled me.

"I will buy you a new rug. Since the one you love so much is in the ground,"

I looked up at him.

"With the bodies," It sounded more like a question than intended.

"Yes,"

"They're dead and buried in my backyard?" I sated coldly.

"I couldn't have dragged them to the cemetery," he shot back.

"You didn't have to kill them either," I said, standing up and brushing past him.

"What they did to you was unacceptable. No man who strikes a woman has the right to live, Imogen. I acted as any other would have acted!" He yelled. The anger I had watched bite into the man's neck was back, and it bubbled to the surface and exploded.

"You acted the wrong way, and you took it to a whole new level. You were a-," I stopped talking. I knew what words I had wanted to say, and they still lingered on my tongue. He had caught on, and his lips pulled into a dark smirk.

"I was what? I know you want to say it. I was a Nazi, Imogen. News flash, that's what I am!" He yelled at me.

"I know that! I wasn't going to say that, Callan!" I responded.

"Then what? What am I?" He was stepping closer to me now. His voice was loud and demanding, and my back was pressed into the shattered glass counter. I stared at him with wide eyes. My heart leaped in my chest as if it wanted to crawl out of my ribcage and die underneath the heel of my shoe. My fingers trembled as the pain in my ribs and stomach shot through me and my brain pounded against my skull. Ba-dump, ba-dump bump. I wasn't on adrenaline anymore. I was in fear. Callan must've noticed the tremble of my fingers and my wince because his face softened, and he reached for me. Involuntarily, I flinched from his touch, but he placed a dirty hand on my cheek, and his thumb stroked my cheek.

"You were a monster, but a monster that saved my life," I said softly.

"You're worth saving, Imogen. I would do it all over again," He said in French. I looked up, surprised.

He smiled, "I've been studying,"  His hand slipped from my face down my arm to grasp my hand. With a pull, I was in his arms. My fingers clutched at his musky wet dirt-smelling shirt. I hadn't realized I was holding anything in, not until I choked on a sob and he pressed a kiss into my hairline. I cried into his chest.

"They- they. I - I was-," My voice wasn't working. My lips bruised and cut and swollen weren't forming the right words. My brain, however, was screaming what I wanted to say, and my legs gave out. Callan eased us to the ground, not letting my shaking body go. He clutched me to his chest, and I held onto him. I never wanted him to let go.

"It's alright, it's over now," He whispered to me.

Was it really? I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning and that something worse was on the horizon.

Callan pushed my tattered hair from my face and fixed my glasses. He was looking at me with such love that I accepted his chaste kiss to my lips.

"Let's get you cleaned up," He suggested pulling me to my feet.

"Same for you as well; you look like you just dug a grave," I said lightly. Callan didn't think it was too funny because he frowned at me. I was pulled along like a lost puppy as he took me upstairs. The air was colder up here, and I clutched at my ripped blouse. My shaking fingers struggled to secure it, but the air had found a way in. Callan had me sit on my bed, and I waited while he pulled out a sweater and trousers for me. He set them beside me and left to start the bath. I heard the water splash into the tub, and I shivered. I stood up, kicked my heels off my feet, and made my way to the bathroom.

"Callan, run the shower, not the bath; I don't want to sit in my own blood," I said, leaning against the door frame. He was washing his hands in the sink, and the water was a murky brown and red. It swirled around the porcelain sink, quickly going down the drain.

"I'll get it," I said and pulled the stub and twisted the knob. The shower sprang to life. I set it on high and listened to it pound at the porcelain. Steam rolled above and around the small bathroom. I moved to the door, and Callan shut the water off, drying his hands off. With a quick breath, I shut the door and stood there a moment to wait to hear Callan protest, but he hadn't said anything. I turned around to see him still drying his hands.

"This dirt is everywhere- it's stuck in my nails," He said, chuckling before glancing up at me. I watched his eyes move back to the task at hand, only to shoot back to me a second later. He had noticed the door shut behind me.

"Uh, what are you doing?" He asked, dropping the hand towel to the sink. He was surprised, his eyebrows shot up in question, and I noticed his chest rise as his brain began to make sense of it.

"You have to wash as well," I stated calmly.

"I was going to do that after you," He said, clearing his throat.

"And waste the water?"

"Yes!" He exclaimed, "You're in shock. You're not thinking straight," He stuttered in French.

"I'm thinking straight, Callan, trust me," I told him, stepping closer.

He stepped back, his legs hitting the tub, "Imogen, you were hit in the head- this is your injury talking," He was trying to make sense of my actions. 

He was trying too hard. I reached up to his blouse. My fingers had only unbuttoned the top button, my eyes taken in his flesh beneath it when his hands had seized mine. I looked up at him, my lips parting to speak, but he had silenced me with a kiss. My fingers kept working on his buttons. Soon my hands were placed to his bare chest, and he pulled away to look at me.

"We can stop right now. We don't have to take this shower," He said.

"It's a shower, Callan. What are you so afraid of?" I asked, pulling my blouse from my trousers. I unzipped the side of my pants and watched Callan sit on the edge of the tub, working at his boot strings. I zipped back up and moved to help him with the strings. My fingers betrayed my calm exterior, they were shaking, and my heart beat furiously against my rib cage. I tugged his boots off and set them aside. Callan had stood up and thrown his socks by his boots, and I stood up and pulled the zipper down again.

I don't know why, but I had stopped and looked up at him. He had turned to the side to unbutton his trousers. His fingers working quickly. He felt my eyes on him because he looked up and smiled. I knew, and he knew that what happens next could be a game-changer. I tugged my pants over my hips, wincing as the fabric brushed against a bruise on my thigh I didn't even know I had. They fell to my ankles, and I stepped out of them. I wasn't done yet. I still had to pull off my stockings. I sat down on the toilet and made to do just that when Callan kneeled down in front of me. His bruised, warm hands lay on my knees. Kneeling before me in his underwear. My eyes flicked to his shirt and pants placed by his boots slightly away. I tugged at the stockings, rolling them down slowly.

When I had reached where his hands were, he took over. His fingers worked perfectly as he rolled the thin material all the way down to my ankles and over my feet. He cast them away and grabbed my hand standing me up. All I had left was my ripped blouse and blue underwear. He was in his black boxers watching me. The whole room now was enveloped in steam, and my glasses were fogging. Callan pulled the crooked frames off my face and leaned around me, setting them on the counter. His hands found their way to my shoulders. I kept eye contact as he slipped them between my breasts to work at the buttons. One by one, he parted the fabric, and I suddenly felt very self-conscious and in the nude in front of a man. But I wasn't in the nude. Not yet, at least.

The blouse was discarded, and I sucked in a breath. Callan's eyes roamed over my bare skin and back up to my face. Smiling, he leaned in and kissed my sore lips, and I pulled my body closer to him. We were chest to chest, and Callan was moving to the shower. I ran my fingers through his dirt-riddled hair. A few loose clumps of earth fell to the ground, and we both stopped to look at the mess.

"Looks like that's something else we need to clean," Callan laughed.

I laughed and smiled at him. I broke from his loose hold and pulled the curtain halfway open.

In silence, I watched him reach for the waistband of his underwear. I watched his fingers slip inside, tugging down. I sucked in a breath and watched in amazement. He kicked them aside, and my eyes flew to his face, and I could see he was blushing.

"I'll go first," he told me, stepping into the shower, "Shit, this water is burning," Callan complained. I laughed aloud. Callan poked his head out and gave me an amusing smile, "You're laughing now-just wait," he teased. I heard the knob squeak as he adjusted the temperature.

He pulled the curtain shut, complaining about how the air was cooler outside the shower. I glanced down at my blue cotton underwear and sighed. As quickly as I could, I pulled them off.

I reached for the curtain and pulled it open. Callan was washing his body with a bar of soap. He looked at me- actually looked at me. His eyes studied my face before dropping to my chest. I watched as they slowly descended before they shot back up to me. I smiled, blushing. I stepped inside the shower. The water was hot around my feet as I pulled the curtain shut. It dimmed inside the steamy area, and Callan just watched me with parted lips.

I reached for the soap in his loose hands and pressed it softly to his back. Callan stood in awe as I scrubbed at his back. The water was soaking him. It bounced off his shoulders, slid down his neck. I handed him the soap, and he took it, turning to me. He was towering over me. I hadn't looked at him thoroughly. On the right side of his jaw was a dark bruise. His lip was cut in the corner, and his neck was red. You could see a faint handprint. My eyes moved to his broad shoulders. Not a cut on them, but his chest was cut- just not deep. His toned abdomen glistened in the low light. The water rolled down his abs, over his navel, and past his hips. I was still a bit embarrassed to be staring at him, but I wasn't- I wasn't ashamed to be staring.

Nor was I ashamed to be caught. Callan's fingers had slipped under my chin, bringing my eyes to his. He was smiling.

"My eyes are up here," He said. We stared at each other before I reached for his face, my fingers roamed over his brow, down the bridge of his nose to settle on his lips, and my thumbs pressed into them as his lips kissed my fingertips. Callan stepped back, his hands resting on my bare hips; they pulled me towards him. We stood under the nozzle. The hot water flowed over us. The dirt that had clumped in his hair drained over his face and down his neck. The dried blood that had caked in my hairline flowed down my shoulders and over my chest. We were both so battered. So broken that we didn't even care that we were bearing everything. We just wanted to be close. I just needed to feel safe.

He had washed my hair, and I had done the same. I had rid his body of the grime of the fight. And he had cleansed me of the germs of their hands. I knew he knew what they had done to me. I noticed the look in his eyes when he saw my torn blouse. For most of the shower, we just held onto each other, and he whispered beautiful German poems into my ear as I cried. Callan was against the wall holding me close to him, my back against the spray of water when it had grown cold. At first, I didn't mind it, but then it pierced my skin and sent shivers up my spine. I broke away and scrambled out of the shower with Callan in tow. The bathroom was steaming, and I threw the door open, running from the bathroom. I reached my room and quickly pulled on my robe. It was thick and fluffy and so warm. I don't know how long we stayed in the shower, but we were beyond clean before we had exited. I stood there wrapped up in my warmth when Callan had finally caught up. He had wrapped a towel around his waist and was watching me from the door.

"What?" I questioned.

He leaned against the door frame crossing his arms, "You're so beautiful,"

It wasn't the fact that he had said it that had warmed my heart, but the way he had said it. It was like there were no ifs or buts in the statement. No second-guessing. It was like it was known to the world and he was just now saying it.

It was the warmth and sweetness.

It was the love.

Callan didn't say anything else, just stepped into the room, shutting the door. I watched him walk over to my dresser and pull out clothing from his drawer. He kept clothing in there since he was over here so often. He set out a simple cable knit navy blue sweater and dark grey pants. I grabbed my clothes and slipped them on as he did. I dressed quickly, not wanting to stand naked in front of him for too long. He must have thought the same because he dressed just as soon as I did. I climbed into bed, pulling him down with me. He held me close as we lay in silence.

"Callan? Did you really mean what you said?" I asked.

He looked down at me and smiled. He knew what I was referring to and answered, "You're worth saving, Imogen. Believe me when I say I'd do it all over again," he was silent for a moment before speaking again, "You're tired. Get some rest,"

My hold on him tightened.

"I will be here when you wake," The promise wasn't in his voice but in his eyes, and that was what made me feel secure enough to sleep.