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.

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