Chapter 28: Blood-Stained Devotion
The physician’s hands were cool and efficient, his touch clinical as he pressed gently along the angry, healed-but-still-tender flesh of her abdomen. Lilly stared at the canopy, focusing on a particular thread of gold embroidery, weaving her consciousness into its intricate path. She felt detached from her body, a floating observer. The sharp, probing ache was distant. The hum of the male’s magic, a sterile green light that smelled of crushed rosemary and clean earth, was a faint buzz. Her mind was still in the corridor, with the suspended sword and Vandran’s ashen face.
“The healing is accelerated but not complete,” the physician droned, his voice muted. “The trauma was significant. The body, even a fae one, needs time to re-knit itself fully. The fatigue is normal. The tremors are a result of systemic shock and energy depletion.” He placed a vial of inky tonic on the bedside table. “For sleep. And pain, if needed.”
Eris stood sentinel by the window, a dark silhouette against the bruised purple twilight. He did not turn. He merely gave a curt nod. The physician packed his bag, bowed, and left, the door clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
The silence that followed was different. It was no longer the shocked, reverberating quiet after the slam of a door. This was a thick, velvet silence, heavy with things unsaid. Lilly watched Eris’s back, the tension in his shoulders beneath the fine wool of his jacket. He had not moved.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the protesting throb in her core. “Eris.”
He didn’t respond. He was looking out at his court, at the gathering night, but she knew he wasn’t seeing it.
“Eris,” she said again, her voice stronger. “Look at me.”
Slowly, he turned. The fading light from the window carved his sharp features into a mask of angles and shadows. His green eyes were depthless in the dim room. He looked at her—really looked—taking in her propped-up posture, the vial of tonic, the way her hands still trembled slightly where they gripped the bedsheet.
“You should drink that,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “And sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” she said. The thought of closing her eyes and sinking into the dark, where the images of the day would surely chase her, was worse than the pain. “I feel…filthy.”
It was the only word that fit. Not from sweat or blood, but from the confrontation, from the rage, from the cold calculation of her own threat. She felt stained by it.
He was moving before she finished speaking. He crossed the room in that deliberate, predatory stride, went to the large armoire, and pulled out a simple, soft robe of dark grey linen. He returned to the bed, holding it out. “Then wash.”
She stared at the robe, then at him. A bath. The mundane practicality of it was an anchor. “The babies…”
“Are asleep. Elara is outside the door. They will be watched.” His tone brooked no argument. It was a statement of fact. A provision.
She nodded, the movement feeling clumsy. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the stone floor chilling her feet. The world tilted slightly, a wave of dizziness and weakness rushing up. She swayed.
His hands were on her elbows instantly, steadying her. His grip was firm, unyielding. He didn’t ask if she was alright. He simply held her until the spinning stopped, then guided her arms into the sleeves of the robe. His fingers were swift and competent on the tie at her waist, pulling it snug but not tight. He was close. She could smell the crisp, autumn scent of him, overlaid now with a sharp, metallic tinge of spent magic and tension.
He didn’t release her arms immediately. He looked down at her, his gaze searching her face again. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath.
He believed her. He let go, his hands falling to his sides. He stepped back, giving her space. “The bathing chamber is through there.” He gestured to a door set in the far wall she seldom used.
She took a step, then another. Her body felt heavy, foreign. She made it to the door, her hand on the cool bronze handle. She looked back. He hadn’t moved. He stood in the center of the bedchamber, watching her, a statue of contained energy.
She pushed the door open.
Steam, fragrant and warm, rolled out to meet her. The bathing chamber was a revelation after the dimness of the bedroom. It was all pale marble and silver, lit by a single, low-hanging chandelier of flickering witch-light. A large, sunken copper tub dominated the center, already full of steaming water, the surface scattered with dried lavender and rose petals. The scent was overwhelming—clean, floral, decadent. It was a balm to the raw edges of her spirit.
She shut the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. Silence, but for the soft drip of water from a silver spout. Peace. She shrugged off the grey robe, letting it pool on the floor. The air was warm on her skin. She avoided looking at her reflection in the vast, silvered mirrors lining one wall. She didn’t want to see the pale, hollow-eyed woman who had threatened to have a man dismembered.
She stepped down into the tub. The water was perfectly hot, a near-scalding embrace that made her gasp as she submerged. She sank down until it lapped at her chin, her knees breaking the surface like islands. She let her head fall back against the smooth copper rim, closing her eyes.
The heat seeped into her bones, easing the deep-seated ache. The lavender soothed the sharp, jagged places in her mind. She floated, untethered, for long minutes, listening to the beat of her own heart slow to a steadier rhythm.
A soft click. The door opening.
Her eyes flew open. Eris stood in the doorway, having entered without a sound. He had shed his jacket and boots. He wore only his trousers and a loose, open-necked white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He held a tray with two ceramic mugs, steam curling from them.
He didn’t speak. He crossed the marble floor, the soft tread of his bare feet whispering against the stone. He set the tray on a low table beside the tub. The scent of spiced, honeyed wine mingled with the lavender.
He knelt beside the tub. Not on some stool or chair. On the hard marble floor, at eye level with her where she lounged in the water. He looked at her, his gaze traveling over the strands of wet hair clinging to her neck, the flush the heat was bringing to her cheeks, the petals sticking to her damp skin.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she murmured, the steam making her voice husky.
“I am,” he said. He reached for one of the mugs and offered it to her.
She lifted a dripping hand from the water, taking it. The ceramic was warm. She sipped. It was mulled wine, sweet and heavy with cloves and orange, laced with something stronger that burned a comforting path down her throat. She sighed, a cloud of vapor escaping her lips.
He took the other mug for himself, drinking deeply. They sat in silence, the only sounds the soft lap of water and their breathing. The steam curled between them, a translucent veil.
“I meant it, you know,” she said quietly, not looking at him, watching a rose petal drift. “What I said to him. I would have let them do it.”
“I know.” He sipped his wine, his eyes on her profile. “So would I.”
She turned her head then, meeting his gaze. “Does that make us monsters?”
He considered her, his expression unreadable. “It makes us rulers,” he said finally. “The line is often the same. The difference is who draws it.” He set his mug down. “You drew yours today. Clearly. They will not cross it again.”
She looked away, back at the drifting petals. “I don’t feel like a ruler. I feel like a cornered animal.”
“The most dangerous kind,” he said, and there was a hint of something in his voice—pride, perhaps, or understanding.
He reached into the water. She flinched, expecting his touch on her. But his hand moved past her, to a floating basin of smooth soapstone holding a cake of soap and a soft linen cloth. He took the cloth, wet it, and wring it out.
“Here,” he said, his voice low.
She frowned. “What are you doing?”
“You said you felt filthy.” He said it simply, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “Let me help.”
It was an intimacy of a different order. Not the frantic, desperate connection of their private moments, not the political alliance of their public stance. This was slow. Deliberate. Atonement, or care, or something else entirely.
She hesitated, then gave a tiny nod.
He dipped the cloth in the water again, lathered it with the soap that smelled of rain and cedar. He started with her extended arm, the one resting on the copper rim. His touch through the linen was firm, methodical, sweeping from her fingertips up to her shoulder. He rinsed the cloth, repeated the process. He washed her arm as if it were a sacred task, his attention complete.
She watched his face. His brow was slightly furrowed in concentration. His green eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, were soft, fixed on his work. He moved to her other arm, repeating the ritual. The warm water, the scent of cedar, the sheer, shocking gentleness of it all unspooled something tight in her chest.
When he was done with her arms, he spoke without looking up. “Turn. Let me do your back.”
Wordlessly, she shifted in the water, turning to present her back to him. She heard the soft slosh as he re-wet the cloth. Then his touch was on her shoulder blades, moving in slow, sweeping circles down her spine. He washed away the lingering ghost of the physician’s magic, the sweat of fear, the phantom grime of the confrontation. His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin beside her spine, and she shivered.
“Cold?” His voice was close to her ear.
“No.” It was a whisper.
He worked in silence after that, his touch lingering on the tense muscles of her neck, kneading gently as he washed. She dropped her head forward, her wet hair hanging around her face. A sound escaped her, part sigh, part sob, stifled by the steam.
His hands stilled.
His hands stilled on her shoulders, the linen cloth drifting in the water between them. That stifled sound had been a fracture in her composure, thin and sharp as breaking ice. He waited, his breath a warm disturbance in the steam near her ear. He did not press. He did not ask. His stillness was a question in itself.
She let the heat of the water and the weight of his silence press against that fracture. Then she turned, the water swirling around her. Droplets traced paths from her temples down her neck. She looked at his hands, resting now on the copper rim, water beading on his skin and the dark hairs of his forearms. They were capable hands. They had poured golden comfort into their children. They had held a court in thrall without lifting a weapon. They had just washed the day’s violence from her skin with a tenderness that threatened to undo her completely.
She reached out, her own fingers leaving the water. She took his nearest hand, her grip firm despite its slight tremor. She brought it to her mouth and pressed her lips to his knuckles. The kiss was not soft. It was an anchor, a seal. His skin tasted of cedar soap and the metallic hint of the copper tub.
“Join me,” she said, the words leaving her mouth before thought could interfere. They were not a seduction. They were a plea for shared weight, for the dissolution of the space between observer and participant.
His green eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the emerald irises. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He searched her face, looking for the ghost of hysteria, the echo of the courtroom tempest. He found only a weary, determined clarity. The cornered animal was gone. In its place was a woman choosing her shelter.
He stood, water dripping from his hands onto the marble. He pulled the damp white shirt over his head in one fluid motion, letting it fall to the floor. His skin in the witch-light was pale gold, marked here and there with faint, silvery scars she had never asked about. He undid the fastening of his trousers, stepped out of them, and joined her in the water.
The tub was large, but he was not a small male. His presence displaced the water, sending a warm wave over her chest. He settled with his back against the opposite curve of copper, his long legs stretching out alongside hers. The space between them evaporated. Heat, steam, and the faint, clean scent of him surrounded her.
She did not let him reclaim the distance. She moved through the petal-strewn water, turning to settle herself between his legs, her back against his chest. He went rigid for a heartbeat, a statue of surprised restraint. Then a deep, shuddering breath moved through him, and his arms came around her, crossing over her stomach, holding her fast against him. His chin rested on the crown of her wet head.
She leaned into the solid wall of his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against her spine. It was a rhythm more grounding than any she had ever known. She turned her head slightly, her lips finding the damp skin of his neck just above his collarbone. She kissed it, a soft, open-mouthed press. She felt the swift jump of his pulse beneath her mouth.
“Lilly.” Her name was a rasp, a warning and a surrender.
She ignored it. Her hand, trailing down through the water, found his thigh. Her fingers walked a slow, deliberate path inward. The water provided a deceptive veil, a liquid buffer that made every movement a languid exploration. Her fingertips brushed the thatch of coarse hair, then wrapped around the thick, heavy heat of his erection.
He jolted as if scalded, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth. His arms tightened convulsively around her middle. She held him, her grip firm but not tight, and began to pump slowly, her thumb sliding over the slick tip with each upward stroke.
The steam seemed to thicken, the air growing denser with each shared breath. She kissed his neck again, whispering against the salt-damp skin there. “I want to make you feel good.” The words were a vibration against him, barely audible over the water’s gentle lap.
It was an offering. An apology for the terror of the day. A reclaiming of a gentler touch. A selfish wish to lose herself in the simplicity of his pleasure, to be the cause of his unspooling rather than the world’s.
For a long moment, he was silent, his body a coil of tense restraint beneath her hands. Then, a low, rough sound escaped him, part groan, part concession. One of his hands left her stomach, sliding down to cover hers where she worked him. He didn’t stop her. He guided her, his calloused palm over her knuckles, setting a rhythm that was deeper, more devastatingly slow.
“Like that,” he breathed into her hair, the words strained. “Just like that.”
His other arm held her firmly anchored to him, a live wire of tension and surrender. She obeyed the pressure of his hand, matching his pace, her own breath coming faster as she felt him thicken and harden further in their shared grip. This was not the frantic coupling of their early days. This was a slow, deliberate unmooring. A silent conversation in the language of pulse and breath and the hot slide of skin on skin.
His breaths grew ragged against her ear. The hand over hers tightened, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust into their encircled fists. The water sloshed quietly, a rhythmic counterpoint. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation of him—the solidity of his chest, the power leashing in his thighs, the frantic, building heat in her hand—wash away everything else. There was no court. No suspended sword. No aching body. There was only steam, and heat, and the profound intimacy of his control fracturing against her palm.
His forehead dropped to her shoulder, a stifled curse burning into her skin. His entire body went taut, a bowstring pulled to its limit. The release, when it came, was a silent, shuddering convulsion that rocked through him, into her. He held her so tightly she could barely breathe, his face buried against her neck, his breath hot and frantic.
The water around them grew still. The only sound was their uneven breathing, merging with the soft drip from the spout. Slowly, the tension bled from his limbs. His grip on her hand loosened, then fell away. His arm around her waist remained, but it was no longer a band of iron; it was an anchor, holding them both in place.
He was silent for a long time, his breathing gradually slowing to match the rise and fall of her own against his chest. The witch-light flickered, casting dancing shadows on the steam. Finally, he nuzzled against her damp hair, his voice a raw, worn-out thing.
“You terrify me,” he whispered.
It was not a complaint. It was the deepest confession he could offer. She understood. She felt it too—the terrifying power of this, of being the calm after his storm, the hand that could undo five centuries of control. She shifted in the water, turning within the circle of his arm to face him. His eyes were hazy, sated, but watchful.
She cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Good,” she whispered back, echoing his own brutal truth from the corridor. She kissed him, slow and deep, tasting the echoes of wine and exertion and peace.
When she pulled back, his eyes had cleared, seeing her anew. The fortress stood, yes. But the gates were open, and the wildfire was inside, warming the hearth.