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She focused on the skull beside the folded blankets. The black leather strap between the teeth proclaimed it as one he had loved. Obviously he had been mated, though she hadn’t heard that in the rumors about him. Had his shellan gone unto the Fade of natural causes or had she been taken from him? Was that why he was so angry?

Bella looked toward the bathroom. What was he doing in there?

She went over and knocked. When there was no answer, she opened the door slowly. A cold rush shot out and she jerked back.

Bracing herself, she leaned into the freezing air. “Zsadist?”

Through the glass door of the shower, she saw him sitting under an ice-cold spray of water. He was rocking back and forth, moaning, scrubbing his wrists with a washcloth.

“Zsadist!” She ran over and pushed the glass aside. Fumbling with the fixtures, she turned off the water. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at her with wild, crazy eyes as he kept rocking and scrubbing, rocking and scrubbing. The skin around the black-tattooed bands was brilliant red, completely raw.

“Zsadist?” She struggled to keep her tone gentle and steady. “What are you doing?”

“I…I can’t get clean. I don’t want you to get dirty, too.” He lifted his wrist and blood oozed down his forearm. “See? Look at the dirt. It’s all over me. Inside of me.”

His voice alarmed her even more than what he’d done to himself, his words carrying the eerie, groundless logic of insanity.

Bella picked up a towel, stepped inside the stall, and fell into a crouch. Capturing his hands, she took the washcloth from him.

As she carefully dried off his ragged flesh, she said, “You are clean.”

“Oh, no, I’m not. I’m really not.” His voice started to rise, a terrible momentum growing. “I’m filthy. I am so very dirty. I am dirty, dirty….” Now he babbled, the words running together, the volume lifting until hysteria pinged off the tiles and filled the bathroom. “Can you see the dirt? I see it everywhere. It coats me. It seals me in. I can feel it on my skin—”

“Shh. Let me…just…”

Keeping an eye on him, as if he were going to…God, she didn’t even know what…she grabbed blindly for another towel and dragged it into the shower. With a reach around his big shoulders, she draped him in it, but when she tried to pull him into her arms, he shrank back.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasped. “You’ll get it on you.”

She sank down to her knees in front of him, her silk robe catching the water, drinking it up. She didn’t even notice the cold.

Jesus… He looked like someone who’d been in a shipwreck: his eyes wide and demented, his soaked sweatpants clinging to the muscles of his legs, the skin of his chest covered in goose bumps. His lips were blue and his teeth chattered.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. And she wanted to reassure him that there was no dirt on him, but knew that would just set him off again.

As water dripped from the showerhead onto the tile, the rhythmic sound was loud as a snare drum between them. In between the beats, she found herself remembering the night she’d followed him up to this room…the night when he’d touched her aroused body. Ten minutes after he had she’d found him curled over the toilet, throwing up because he’d put his hand on her.

I’m filthy. I am so very dirty. I am dirty, dirty….

Clarity came to her in the shifting way of a nightmare, cleaving into consciousness with chilling illumination, showing her something ugly. It was obvious he’d been beaten as a blood slave, and she’d assumed that was why he didn’t like to be touched. Except getting hit, however painful and frightening, didn’t make you feel dirty.

But sexual abuse would do it.

His black eyes suddenly focused on her face. As if he’d felt the conclusion that had found her.

Driven by sympathy, she leaned in toward him, but the anger that bled into his face stopped her.

“Christ, female,” he snapped. “Will you cover yourself?”

She glanced down. Her robe was open to her waist, the swells of her breasts showing. She yanked the lapels together.

In the tight silence it was hard to meet his stare,