My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

35. Grace

THIRTY-FIVE

Grace

I held Mariah's baby close.

What a fucking day…I’d started it off happy and in bed with the man I loved, then I’d been tied up, tortured…and now I was here.

Holding my healthy, sleeping niece.

The lights gave off a soft glow, and the machines hummed in the background, but none of it touched the tranquility that came over me. The little one, so tiny and pink in my arms, seemed untouched by the chaos of her arrival. My heart felt full as I stared down at her peaceful face.

“She's beautiful,” I whispered. Mariah lay in her bed, looking worn out yet glowing. She smiled, and even from a distance, I could see the shine of motherhood in her eyes. Colt stood near, watching us with a look that said he held the world in that room.

“You did it,” I told her. “You're amazing.”

Mariah reached out and took my hand. “We both did,” she said. “You made it through, Grace. That’s what matters.”

I nodded, though a shiver passed through me. I was sore, each muscle protesting even being awake. I looked down at the baby as she cooed softly, a sound of pure innocence. In that moment, I let myself feel the weight of her small body, the reality of her presence.

It was good. It was real.

I shifted in the chair, my arms aching as I cradled Mariah's baby. The pain in my wrists pulsed with each heartbeat, a reminder of the ropes that had bound them not long ago. I glanced at Clay, his steady blue eyes watching me.

“I’m exhausted,” I whispered.

Mariah reached out, her fingers brushing against mine as I handed her daughter back into her waiting arms. She nodded, understanding passing between us without words. I swayed slightly, even sitting upright in the wheelchair an effort. Clay stepped closer, his hand finding my elbow, grounding me.

“Let's get you home,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied.

A nurse came outside with us to help me into the truck, giving Clay another set of bandages and some pain meds. They’d fixed me up—no serious injuries—but the exhaustion and trauma was enough to knock me the fuck out. The truck door opened with a soft creaking sound, and Clay helped me inside. The seat was cold against my skin, but his presence filled the space with warmth. As he started the engine, the silence enveloped us, a comforting blanket that required no words.

Outside, snowflakes swirled in the headlights, transforming the world into a whirling snow globe. Shadows of trees lined the road, their branches heavy with white. My eyelids drooped, fatigue pulling them down.

“Rest,” Clay said, his voice low and steady. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

“Thank you,” I managed to say, my gratitude profound yet simple in its delivery.

The hum of the tires on the snowy road played a rhythmic lullaby, inviting the sleep I had fought against. A part of me wanted to resist, to stay alert, but the other part—the part that trusted Clay implicitly—whispered that it was okay to let go.

And so, I did.

I didn’t wake again until we pulled up to Clay's cabin, the engine falling silent as he killed the ignition. Bear bounded up to us as soon as we walked through the front door, tail wagging. He panted with excitement, greeting us like we were returning from war rather than the hospital.

Well…it kind of felt like we were.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, reaching out a hand to ruffle his fur.

He whined happily, like he’d known we might never see each other again.

I was so, so glad I was back.

The scent of wood smoke and pine hit me as we crossed the threshold. It was welcoming, familiar in a way that soothed the raw edges of my nerves.

“Feels good to be inside,” I commented.

“Better than the hospital,” Clay replied, shutting the door and sealing us inside the safety of his cabin.

“Much better,” I agreed. A small sigh escaped me as I took a step forward.

“Sit down,” Clay instructed, guiding me towards the couch.

I obeyed without argument, sinking into the cushions. The fabric was soft under my hands, and for a moment, I simply closed my eyes. I listened as Clay got a fire started, as Bear hopped up on the couch with me, as Clay walked down the hall and turned on a faucet.

I fell asleep again.

I didn’t know how long I drifted off for, but then Clay was back—gently waking me, taking my arm and helping me to my feet. It was so warm in the cabin that I could have collapsed and slept for days—but as we rounded the corner to the bathroom, I realized he’d run me a bath. Good; I was still dirty. I really, really needed to wash off this day.

The bathroom smelled like men’s body wash, clean and crisp, and candlelight flickered against the walls, throwing shadows that danced softly in the small space. Clay guided me inside, and then he started to undress me—nothing sexual, just the deepest love I’d ever felt. I stood still, letting Clay's hands work the buttons of my shirt.

“Arms up,” he said, and I obliged, lifting them just enough for him to ease the fabric off my shoulders. He was gentle as he worked. The shirt fell to the floor with a whisper.

His fingers brushed against my skin, unintentional yet tender, as he reached for the waist of my jeans. They slipped down my legs without resistance, pooling at my feet. I stepped out of them, one foot after another, my gaze fixed on the water in the clawfoot tub.

“Easy,” he murmured when I almost stumbled. His hand was steady on my elbow, guiding me forward. I didn't look at him, couldn't face the concern I knew lingered in those piercing blue eyes of his.

Instead, I focused on the steam rising from the surface of the water, the heat beckoning me closer.

The edge of the tub was cool against my skin as I perched on it, ready to step in. Clay paused, giving me a moment to adjust. I took a deep breath and slid into the water, a sigh escaping me unbidden as the warmth enveloped me.

“Lean back,” he instructed, his voice low. That voice…if I was in any other state, his commands would have turned me on. As it was, all I could do was obey. I rested against the porcelain, feeling the water lap at my bruised skin. He watched me for a moment, ensuring I was settled.

I released another long sigh as I settled further into the bath, the heat wrapping around me. Muscles that had been tight with agony began to loosen.

“You okay?”

“Better than okay,” I replied.

I listened as he moved around, though I didn’t know what he was doing. I found out when he gently moved me forward—then his big frame moved into the space behind me, settling me against his broad chest. His legs cradled me, kept me safe.

I rested against his shoulder, shocked at how I was able to get turned on even now.

“Clay…”

“Shh,” he murmured, a mere breath of sound. “Relax, Grace.”

Clay's hand found a washcloth, and he dipped it into the water. He wrung it out carefully before placing it against my arm. The fabric felt soft, almost tender, as he began to glide it over my skin.

“I’ve got you,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, and his breath warmed the top of my head. He moved the cloth over my arms and shoulders, each stroke washing away layers of grime and blood. I’d had to get stitches in just one of the cuts on my arm, but otherwise it was all just bruising and scrapes.

Everything hurt, but not enough that this didn’t feel good.

“Thanks,” I managed to say.

Clay’s hands were slow, deliberate. They never lingered too long on any one spot, never pressed too hard. It was as if he feared I might shatter under too much pressure.

“You're not going to hurt me,” I told him.

“I know,” Clay replied. “Just being careful.”

The attention he gave to cleansing my wounds was thorough, gentle. It wasn't just about physical care; there was something more in his touch, something that reached beyond the surface.

He was healing me.

Clay reached for the shampoo bottle next to the tub. He poured some into his hand, and then his fingers worked through my hair, lathering it up. The scent of peppermint hit me, clean and soothing. It filled the room, replacing the acrid smell of fear that had clung to me for too long.

“Lean back,” he said, and I did, resting against him. His chest was solid behind me, an unwavering presence. He massaged my scalp, and I closed my eyes, allowing the motion to calm my frayed nerves.

“Feels good,” I mumbled, my voice low.

“Good,” he replied. His hands moved with precision, not a caress but a gesture of pure care. I rested there, feeling the weight of my own body supported by his. In his arms, I didn't have to uphold the facade of being unbreakable.

“It's been a while since I could just... stop,” I admitted.

“You can stop now,” Clay assured me. His tone was even, carrying no judgment, only understanding.

For once, I let myself be weak, vulnerable.

With Clay, I found a momentary reprieve from having to be strong.

I let out a breath. “Thank you,” I whispered.

The words vanished into the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the tub. He didn't say anything back. Instead, he kissed my head gently. His arms tightened around me. We stayed that way, not moving, not speaking.

“Clay,” I said. My voice didn't shake. It didn't need to. He understood. He always did.

“Yeah?” He kept it simple. That's how Clay was. No frills, no fuss.

“Stay.” It was all I could manage.

“Always,” he replied.

There was no hesitation. His word was his bond. That much I knew about Clay Hawthorne.

Even in the silence, even without fancy words, he said everything I needed to hear.