Chapter 11: Morning Steam
The bath was a decadent, sunken monstrosity of hammered copper, large enough to drown in. Steam rose in lazy, aromatic coils, carrying the scent of bergamot and the deeper, woody spice of the soap Eris preferred. Morning light, fractured by the leaded glass of the bathing chamber’s high windows, danced across the surface of the water in shifting, liquid coins.
Lilly was already there.
Eris paused in the doorway, a silk robe hanging open over his sleep-trousers. He had woken alone in the vast bed, the sheets on her side already cool. A faint, unfamiliar curl of something like disappointment had tightened in his chest before he’d dismissed it. Now, seeing her, the feeling morphed into something else entirely.
She was submerged to her shoulders, her back to him, head tipped against the rolled lip of the tub. Her blonde hair was a dark, wet cloud slicked back from her neck. Her eyes were closed. One hand drifted idly through the water, the other held a cake of soap. He watched, motionless, as she drew the soap in slow, deliberate circles over her thigh. The foam gathered, white against her skin, which was flushed pink from the heat. She worked with a quiet, self-contained focus, a study in simple, unobserved pleasure.
He made no sound, but her hand stilled. She didn’t turn.
“Are you going to stand there all morning?” she asked, her voice a low, sleep-rough hum that vibrated through the steam. “The water’s perfect.”
He should leave. This was his sanctuary, and she was in it, claiming it as casually as she’d claimed his chair, his bed. The boundaries were not just blurred; they were being systematically dissolved. He found his feet moving forward of their own volition.
He let the robe slide from his shoulders. It pooled on the cool marble floor like a shed shadow. He stepped over the rim of the tub, the water searingly hot against his skin, a shock that quickly melted into a penetrating warmth. The tub was immense, but her presence made it feel suddenly intimate, crowded with more than just water.
She didn’t open her eyes as the water sloshed, as he settled behind her. He leaned back against the sloping copper, his legs bracketing her body. For a long moment, he simply looked at the exposed line of her neck, the droplets of water caught in the delicate hollow of her throat. The scent of her—clean skin and that faint, floral soap from her world—mingled with his own.
Then he reached for her.
His hands settled on her shoulders. She gasped, a tiny, sharp inhalation, her eyes flying open. Her muscles were taut wires beneath his palms. He said nothing, just began to knead, his thumbs pressing into the tight knots at the base of her neck. He applied a deliberate, steady pressure, the kind meant to unravel, not to comfort.
A shaky sigh escaped her, her head lolling forward. “That’s… not fair.”
“What isn’t?” His voice was close to her ear.
“Using your centuries of tension-holding knowledge against me.”
“It isn’t against you.” He worked his way up the column of her neck, feeling the subtle vertebrae. “It is for you. A distinction you seem determined to ignore.”
She was quiet as his hands moved over her shoulders, her silence a form of concentration. He could feel her surrendering to the sensation, the deliberate melt of her muscles under his touch. It was a power as potent as any magic, this ability to render her pliant. He leaned forward, dipping his head. His face brushed the wet, fragrant skin where her neck met her shoulder. He didn’t kiss her. He just rested his forehead there, breathing her in, feeling the pulse under his skin beat in time with hers. The steam wrapped around them like a private cloak.
“You left the bed,” he said into her skin. The words were an accusation and a question.
“You were finally asleep,” she murmured, her voice drowsy. “I didn’t want to wake you. And I was… sticky. From the road dust you brought back with you.”
A faint, almost imperceptible rumble of amusement vibrated in his chest. “My apologies for contaminating you.”
“Forgiven.” She shifted, the water swirling around them. She turned her head slightly, her cheek now against his damp hair. “Eris?”
“Hmm.”
Every muscle in his body went still. His hands paused on her shoulders. The game. She was invoking the game. Here, now, when he was naked and vulnerable behind her, when the memory of her sleeping trustingly in his arms was less than an hour old. His jaw tightened. “What of it?”
She was quiet for so long he thought she might not answer. Then she said, “Is it still… pending?”
The question was a spark on dry tinder. The controlled relaxation of the last few minutes evaporated, replaced by a swift, sharp heat that had nothing to do with the bathwater. His fingers tightened momentarily on her flesh before he forced them to relax. He remembered the silken restraint, her defiance, the aching frustration of leaving her wanting. Of walking away.
“Do you want it to be?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
She didn’t flinch. “I want to know the rules.”
“There are no rules.” The words were flat. Final.
“There are always rules.” She tilted her head back until it rested on his shoulder, looking up at the steam-clouded ceiling. Her throat was a pale, offered line. “Your rules. I just live here.”
The resignation in her tone, the quiet acceptance of her position, struck a wrong, dissonant chord. It was not the bold challenge he expected, not the teasing defiance. It was a statement of fact, and it tasted like ashes. He disliked it intensely.
His hands left her shoulders. He slid them slowly down her arms, leaving trails of fire on her wet skin, until his fingers laced with hers beneath the water. He pulled her back more firmly against his chest, until every curve of her was aligned with the hard planes of his body. He felt the sudden, frantic jump of her heart against his arm.
“Forget the cabin,” he said, his lips moving against the shell of her ear. The command was low, absolute. “Forget the threat. That was a different conversation.”
She tensed. “Then what is this?
“This,” he said, his voice a low vibration against her spine, “is now.”
He turned her in the water before she could respond. It was a slow, fluid motion, water sluicing from their bodies in heavy waves that slapped against the copper sides. Her eyes were wide, questioning, as she faced him. Droplets clung to her lashes. Steam curled between their faces, a fragile, shifting veil.
He didn’t kiss her immediately. He studied her—the blush high on her cheeks from the heat, the slight part of her lips, the confusion and wary hope in her gaze. He brought a hand up, cupping the side of her face. His thumb smoothed over the arch of her cheekbone, a touch so deliberately tender it made her breath catch.
Then he closed the final distance.
He kissed her deeply but not heated. It was a slow exploration, a tasting, a silent answer to her question. There was no frantic urgency, no reclaiming of dominance from the cabin. This was different. This was a choice, made in full sunlight, with the steam rising around them like a benediction. His lips were firm, moving over hers with a thorough, devastating patience that unraveled her completely.
When he finally pulled back a fraction, her eyes were still closed. “I happen to enjoy your presence,” he said, the words quiet, precise, and utterly devastating in their simplicity.
Her eyes fluttered open. A slow, soft smile bloomed on her kiss-reddened lips, and a blush spread across her skin, deeper than the bath’s heat could account for. “Well, that’s a relief,” she breathed, her voice unsteady. “Since I happen to enjoy yours.”
He smirked, a rare, true curve of his mouth that transformed his sharp features. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against the frantic pulse at the side of her neck. He felt her shiver, her hands coming up to grip his forearms beneath the water. “I do intend to have you screaming my name,” he murmured against her damp skin, the promise a dark, delicious threat. “Just not yet.”