He lets out a small dry laugh, not even bothering to lift his head. “I did all the fucking work, Carter. You were the one just sitting back and watching.”

I narrow my eyes, shifting slightly as I gesture toward Haven, who’s barely holding herself together, her limbs still limp, her breath still uneven. “Yeah? Then explain why she can barely fucking move.”

Tate snorts, but when he glances down at Haven, his smirk falters just slightly, just enough for me to catch it.

With an exaggerated sigh, he pushes himself up. “Fine. I’ll start the damn bath. You go grab her something to wear.”

I grin, satisfied, before carefully shifting out from beneath Haven, pressing a kiss against the top of her head. “Be right back, sweetheart.”

She barely nods, her fingers tightening slightly against my skin, her body still sinking into me.

I head toward my dresser, rifling through my drawers, grabbing a fresh oversized T-shirt and a pair of sweats that’ll be way too big on her but comfortable enough to keep her warm.

By the time I return to the bathroom, Tate is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching the tub fill with steaming water. Haven is still trying to sit up, her body sluggish, expression hazy, her attempt at regaining some semblance of composure completely fucking failing. God, I would trade anything to be able to see her like that forever.

I set the clothes down on the counter, reaching for her, pressing a hand against the small of her back. “Come on, baby,” I murmur, brushing my lips against her temple. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

The moment we ease Haven into the water, her body relaxes instantly, a soft sigh slipping from her lips as the heat soaks into her aching muscles, as the steam curls around her skin, the exhaustion starts to sink deeper.

Tate and I kneel on either side of the tub, watching her, waiting for her to say something, do something, tell us what she needs, but all she does is tilt her head back against the porcelain, her lashes fluttering, her lips parting just slightly.

Fuck, she’s beautiful like this. I grab a washcloth, dipping it into the water, wringing it out before running it over her shoulder, down her arm, slow, careful, making sure I don’t miss a single inch of her skin.

Tate does the same. But where I’m gentle, taking my time, soaking in every moment, Tate moves more efficiently, pressing the cloth against the bruises forming along her ribs, her hips, her thighs, his lips parting just slightly as he traces the evidence of everything we just did to her. Without a word, he leans down and presses a kiss right over one of them.