Chapter 14: Morning Cleansing
The silence after the guard’s footsteps faded was a tangible thing. It stretched between them, thick with the scent of sex and splintered wood. Eris’s arms remained around her, but the laughter had stilled in his chest, replaced by a slow, measured breath. Lilly could feel the shift. The world was seeping back in, cold and demanding.
“We need to bathe,” he said finally, his voice devoid of inflection. It was a practical statement, a lord assessing the next task.
He disentangled himself from her and the wrecked bedding with a grimace, standing amidst the debris. In the full morning light, he was a study in contradictions: the powerful lines of his body marked with scratches, his hair in disarray, his expression already recomposing itself into its usual guarded mask. He offered her a hand.
She took it, her own limbs feeling loose and sore. As she stood, a trickle of his release leaked down her inner thigh. The evidence was a cold, shocking stripe on her skin. He saw it. His eyes tracked the path with a focused, proprietorial glance before flicking back to her face.
Without a word, he guided her towards a door she hadn’t noticed, hidden in the paneling beside the massive fireplace. It opened into a bathing chamber that stole her breath. Morning sun streamed through a high, arched window, glittering off gold-leaf mosaics and a massive, clawfoot tub already brimming with steaming, rose-scented water. The air was warm and humid, thick with the smell of lavender and clean stone.
He didn’t lead her to the tub. Instead, he walked her to the edge of a sunken pool in the center of the room, its water clear and shimmering, fed by a silent, carved stone spring. Without preamble, his hand fisted in her hair again—a gesture that now carried a dreadful, familiar certainty—and he pushed her forward.
She stumbled on the top step, and he used her momentum, dragging her down into the heated water. It was deep. Her feet found a submerged bench running along the side. He forced her to her knees on it, the water rising to her shoulders. Her hair floated around her like spilled ink.
He stood before her, the water lapping at his hips. Steam rose between them. His cock, already half-hard again, swayed in the current. He looked down at her, his sharp features blurred by the rising vapor.
“Open.”
The command was quiet, flat. It brooked no hesitation. She parted her lips, the taste of him and herself still faint on her tongue. He grasped himself, stroking once, twice, to full, rigid hardness. He slapped the head against her cheek, the wet smack echoing off the marble walls. Then he guided it to her mouth.
He didn’t shove. He fed himself in, inch by deliberate inch, watching her eyes water as he filled her. The water magnified the sensation, the heat, the slickness. When he was fully seated, he held her head still, his fingers tight in her scalp.
“Good,” he murmured, his free hand tracing the line of her jaw under the water. Then he began to move.
He set a relentless, shallow rhythm, using his grip to piston her head onto his cock. The water splashed and churned around them, sloshing over the pool’s edge onto the mosaic floor. Each thrust hit the back of her throat, triggering a gag that bubbled uselessly into the water. Her choked sounds, wet and desperate, echoed in the steamy chamber. Tears from the strain mixed with the pool water on her face.
He watched himself disappear into her mouth, his expression one of dark, concentrated pleasure. “Such a pretty fucking mouth,” he grunted, his hips driving forward. “Made for this. For taking me.”
He fucked her face with a controlled brutality, the water amplifying every sound, every slap of skin. She gripped his thighs under the water, her nails digging in, holding on as he used her. Her own arousal, a persistent, humiliating throb, pulsed in time with his thrusts.
After what felt like an eternity, he pulled out with a slick pop. She gasped, sucking in steam and air. He tilted her head back by her hair, forcing her to look up at him. His breathing was ragged.
“Clean me,” he ordered.
She knew what he wanted. Leaning forward, she licked the length of him, cleaning her own saliva and the faint taste of her release from his skin. She took him back into her mouth, sucking gently, her tongue swirling around the head. She tasted salt and heat and power.
A low groan rumbled from him. His hand in her hair gentled, becoming almost a caress. “Enough.”
He pulled her up by her arms, water cascading from both of them. In one smooth motion, he sat on the submerged bench and pulled her onto his lap, straddling him. The water buoyed her, making her feel weightless. His hardness pressed against her entrance beneath the surface.
He didn’t enter her immediately. Instead, his hands came up to frame her face. His thumbs stroked over her cheekbones, wiping away the mingled tears and bathwater. His gaze was intense, searching.
“Lilly,” he said, her name a rough exhale.
Then he kissed her.
It was nothing like before. There was no violence, no domination. It was deep, slow, and shockingly tender. His lips moved over hers with a lingering hunger that felt like a question. His tongue sought entrance, and she gave it, a soft sigh escaping her as she melted against him. One hand slid into her wet hair, cradling the back of her head. The other splayed across her lower back, pressing her closer.
The shift was so profound it made her dizzy. The man who had face-fucked her against the vanity and broken a bed frame taking her was now kissing her like she was something fragile, something precious. It was more destabilizing than any command.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers. Their breath mingled in the steam. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he whispered, the words a soft promise against her lips. “And you’re going to come for me. Just from my cock. Do you understand?”
She could only nod, her throat tight.
He guided himself into her with a slow, inexorable push. The water made the slide effortless, sensuous. She sank down onto him, a moan torn from her chest as he filled her completely. He felt bigger like this, with the water’s buoyancy, every inch a profound claiming.
He didn’t move at first. He just held her there, impaled, his arms wrapped fully around her, her head tucked under his chin. He rocked her slightly, a gentle, soothing motion that made her whimper.
“You fit me perfectly,” he murmured into her hair, his voice thick. “This perfect, tight cunt was made for my cock.”
Then he began to move. His thrusts were deep, languid rolls of his hips, grinding up into her. The water swirled around them, caressing skin already oversensitized. He kissed her again, soft and open-mouthed, as his hands roamed her back, her sides, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples.
“That’s it,” he breathed between kisses. “Take me, sweetheart. Take all of me.”
The endearment, spoken in his gravel-dark voice, unraveled her completely. Her hips began to match his rhythm, meeting each slow, driving thrust. The pleasure built not in a frantic spike, but in a deep, swelling tide. It was in the clasp of him inside her, in the tender brutality of his mouth on hers, in the way his hands held her as if he might never let go.
“Eris,” she sobbed against his lips, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. “I’m… I’m gonna…”
“Come,” he commanded gently, his own pace becoming slightly more urgent, his breath coming faster. “Let me feel you come on my cock. Show me.”
The orgasm broke over her like a wave, silent and immense. It shuddered through her, a series of deep, internal pulses that clenched around him rhythmically, milking his length. A ragged cry was torn from him in response. He drove up into her, holding her tightly as he followed her over the edge, his release flooding her heat in hot, endless spurts that seemed to go on forever.
They stayed locked together as the tremors subsided, the hot water lapping at their chests. The only sound was their shattered breathing and the soft drip of water from the edge of the pool.
Slowly, he nuzzled her neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below her ear. “The water is getting cold,” he said, his voice barely audible.
He helped her stand, her legs wobbly. He led her to the large tub, where he washed her with a startling, methodical gentleness. He lathered soap in his hands and smoothed it over every mark, every bruise, every place he’d been. He washed her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp. He did it all in silence, his touch speaking in a language she was only beginning to decipher.
When he was done, he lifted her from the tub, wrapped her in a towel so large it swallowed her, and dried her with the same quiet care. He dried himself quickly, then tied a towel around his hips.
A discreet knock came at the outer chamber door.
“Enter,” Eris called, his voice back to its normal, cool authority.
Two attendants—not the guards—slipped in, their eyes carefully averted from the bathing chamber doorway. They carried a new, already-made bed frame and fresh linens.
“Leave it,” Eris said. “I’ll dress myself. Send for a meal to be brought to the solar in an hour.”
They bowed and left.
Eris turned back to her. He walked to a wardrobe and pulled out a simple, dark green tunic. It was clearly his. He held it out.
“Put this on.”
She did, the soft fabric falling to her mid-thigh, smelling faintly of cedar and him. He dressed himself in tailored trousers and a shirt, not his formal court wear, but something plainer. He looked at her, her damp hair, his tunic drowning her, her bare legs.
Something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of possessiveness, but softer now. Tempered.
“Come,” he said, extending a hand. “You’ll eat.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a statement. He was not hiding her. He was taking her to his solar, to break his fast with her dressed in his clothes. The significance of the act hung in the air, heavier than any declaration.
She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, firm and sure. He led her from the steam-filled chamber, out of the ruin of the bedroom, and into the brightly lit corridor beyond, where the court awaited, and where nothing would ever be the same.
He led her from the steam-filled chamber, out of the ruin of the bedroom, and into the brightly lit corridor beyond, where the court awaited, and where nothing would ever be the same. He did not drop her hand. His fingers remained interlaced with hers, a blatant, silent signal to the two attendants still lingering outside the door, their eyes carefully lowered as they passed. The walk to his private solar was short, through a sitting room lined with books, and into a sun-washed space where a low table held a waiting meal.
He guided her to a plush couch, his hand a steady pressure on the small of her back. “Sit.”
She did, the soft linen of his borrowed tunic whispering against her thighs. He didn’t take the seat opposite. He sat beside her, his thigh pressing against hers from hip to knee. He reached for the platter, loading a small porcelain plate with slices of fruit, cured meat, and a warm, buttery roll. He placed it in her lap. His arm then settled along the back of the couch, his fingers finding the damp ends of her hair. He began to idly twist a dark strand around his index finger, the contact casual and constant.
“Eat,” he said, his gaze not on her, but on the sunlit garden beyond the glass doors. His voice was calm, allowing no argument. His other hand rested on his own knee, but his pinky finger brushed the outside of her bare thigh.
She picked up the roll, her appetite a vague, distant notion beneath the roaring in her ears. She took a bite. It tasted of nothing. She chewed, swallowed, and forced herself to take another. His silent, possessive proximity was a cage of a different kind. The citrus scent of the fruit, the salt of the meat, the warmth of his side against hers—it all felt surreal, a violent contrast to the brutality and tenderness of the bath.
She ate half the plate, each mouthful a mechanical effort. His fingers never stopped their slow, twirling motion in her hair. The weight of what she needed to say settled in her stomach like a stone.
She put the plate down on the table with a soft click. She cleared her throat, a dry, fragile sound. “I, um. Have to tell you something.”
His fingers stilled in her hair.
“But I don’t know how you’ll react.” She stared at her own hands, clenched in the fabric of the tunic. “And I’m kind of scared you’ll be mad.”
He moved then. He turned his body fully towards her, his hand leaving her hair to cup her jaw. His thumb stroked over her bottom lip. His gaze was too focused, too still. “Say it.”
She flinched at the directness. He tilted her head up, forcing her eyes to meet his. The green was endless, unreadable. He leaned in and caught her lower lip between his teeth, a brief, sharp bite that was more warning than caress. A demand for truth.
The words tumbled out, hushed and rushed. “I’m um, late. There’s a chance. A chance I could be pregnant.”
His hand on her jaw did not tighten. It did not move. The entire room seemed to freeze, the sunlight suspending the dust in the air. His expression did not change, but something behind his eyes shifted, a tectonic plate grinding deep beneath a still surface. His thumb, still resting on her lip, pressed down slightly.
“Late,” he repeated, the word utterly flat.
“Yes.”
“How many days?” His voice was a clinical instrument.
“Seven. Maybe eight.” She couldn’t breathe. “It’s… it’s never been this late before.”
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes scanning her face as if reading a complex text. He took her hand from her lap and placed it over his own on her jaw, covering her cold fingers with his. The chain of contact—his hand, hers, her face—was a closed circuit.
“You are certain of the timing?” he finally asked. His tone was detached, analyzing variables. “The first time. In the hall. It was during your cycle.”
It wasn’t a question. He knew. He remembered everything.
She nodded, a tiny movement against his hold. “It was ending. So it’s… possible. Not likely, but possible. And then… everything after…”
A flicker in his gaze. The ruined bed. the bath. All the times he’d spilled inside her with possessional finality. His strategic mind was calculating, assessing the probability, the implications. His thumb stroked once more across her lip.
“You are scared I will be angry,” he said, echoing her words back to her with a strange inflection.
“Aren’t you?”
He considered this. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, to where the neckline of his tunic gaped. “Anger would be… inefficient.” He looked back into her eyes. “It changes nothing of what has occurred. It only presents a new set of parameters.”
A new set of parameters. Her possible pregnancy, their possible child, reduced to a strategic variable. A cold wave washed over her. She tried to pull back, but his hand tightened, just a fraction, holding her in place.
“You would keep it,” he stated. There was no question in his voice.
Her vision blurred. “It’s not a ‘it.’ And I don’t know. I haven’t even… I just know I’m late. That’s all I know.”
He leaned in again, but this time his lips brushed hers, once, twice, a ghost of a kiss. “Then we will know,” he murmured against her mouth. His other hand came up to cover her abdomen, splaying wide over the soft linen. The heat of his palm seared through the fabric. “You will tell me the moment you are sure. You will hide nothing.”
It was a command, but his voice was low, almost rough. The hand on her stomach pressed down gently, as if he could already feel a change. The possessiveness in the gesture was absolute, more profound than any bite or bruise.
“And if I am?” she whispered, the terror and something else, something terrifyingly like hope, clotting her throat.
His eyes held hers. The calculated coolness fractured for a single, blazing instant, revealing something raw and ferocious beneath. His next words were quiet, deliberate, and they settled around her with the weight of a vow.
“Then it is mine.”
“Then it is mine.”
The words hung, a final verdict. The silence in the sunlit solar was absolute, broken only by the distant call of a hawk outside. Lilly stared at him, at the unyielding certainty in his eyes. The fear curdled, mixing with a sudden, reckless defiance at his absolute claim. A shaky breath hitched in her chest, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Well,” she said, her voice thin but clear, “at least we’re already married so it’s not exactly a scandal.”
Eris went perfectly still. The hand on her abdomen tightened, just for a heartbeat. Then a strange, sharp sound escaped him—not a laugh, but a short, surprised exhale through his nose. His gaze drilled into her, searching for mockery, for fear, for the calculation behind the words. He found only a weary, fractured bravery.
“No,” he agreed, his voice dangerously soft. The pad of his thumb brushed over the line of her hip bone beneath the tunic. “It is not a scandal. It is a consolidation.”
He said it like a general surveying a newly acquired territory. A consolidation of power. Of assets. Of her. His hand was still spread over her stomach, a brand of possession through the thin linen. The warmth of his palm was the only real thing in the suddenly spinning room.
I swallowed, my throat dry. “Is that all I am? A parameter?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on his own hand, as if he could see through her skin. The silence stretched, populated by the distant hawk’s cry and the frantic beat of my own heart. When he finally looked up, his eyes had changed. The analytical chill had burned away, leaving something more dangerous in its wake: a raw, undisguised hunger that had nothing to do with strategy.
“No,” he said, the word a low vibration. “You are a complication.”
He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. I didn’t. His lips met mine, but it was nothing like the bruising kisses from before dawn. This was soft. A slow, searching press that melted the tension from my shoulders. He lingered, his breath warm against my mouth, then broke away just far enough to rest his forehead against mine. Our noses brushed. In that shadowed space between our faces, the world narrowed to the feel of his skin on mine.
“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it, stripped of all its sharp edges.
The question was so simple, so utterly human, it cracked something open inside my chest. He wasn’t asking about alliances or court politics. He was asking about me, in the wreckage of his bed, in his clothes, with his possible child a secret in my blood. The tears that pricked my eyes weren’t from fear. They were from a relief so profound it felt like pain.
“Yes,” I whispered. It was mostly true. I was trembling, but I wasn’t broken. “Are you… happy with this?”
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His green eyes searched mine, reading the truth I couldn’t hide. A single, slow nod. “Good.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The intensity of his focus was its own affirmation. He reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear with a precision that felt like a vow. His knuckles grazed my skin, a fleeting, deliberate touch.
Then his gaze shifted to the forgotten plate on my lap. He pointed a single, elegant finger. “Eat.”
The command was firm, but its meaning had shifted. It wasn’t an order from a lord to a subordinate. It was an instruction from someone who now had a vested interest in my sustenance. The mundane absurdity of it, after everything, almost made me laugh. I picked up a slice of pear. It was cool and sweet on my tongue. I took another bite, then another, under the unwavering watch of his gaze.