Chapter 2: The Bath of Blood and Honey
The bathroom was a cathedral of steam and shadow. Black marble swallowed the light from the gas lamps mounted on the walls, turning everything bronze and gold and deep, liquid amber. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine oil and something earthier—sandalwood, maybe, or the ghost of the cologne Klaus wore when he wanted to remind the world exactly who he was.
The claw-foot tub dominated the center of the room. It was massive, big enough for two people to stretch out in, and tonight it was filled to the brim with water so hot it curled off the surface in lazy ribbons of vapor. Rose petals floated on the surface, hundreds of them, their crimson so deep they looked almost black in the dim light. Eve had not heard the water running when they left the ballroom, but her father was a creature of ancient magics and older habits. He had probably called it from the pipes with a thought and a wave of his hand.
She stood in the doorway, wrapped in his shirt, the linen hanging past her thighs. Her bare feet were cold against the marble, but the rest of her was still humming, still vibrating with the aftershock of what they had done in the ballroom. The piano keys had left indentations in her back. She could feel them when she shifted her weight, a pattern of bruises that would fade within the hour. Her father's bite marks were already healing.
"Come here, little wolf." Klaus was already undressing, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt with practiced ease. He didn't look at her; he was watching her reflection in the cracked mirror above the vanity. The fracture ran diagonally across his face, splitting him into two versions of himself—one left, one right, neither quite whole. "Let me take care of you."
Eve crossed the room slowly, letting the shirt fall from her shoulders as she moved. It pooled on the floor behind her like a shed skin. She watched her father's reflection watching her, saw the way his hands stilled on his buttons, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
"You've seen every inch of me before," she said, a hint of amusement coloring her voice. "Why do you look at me like that?"
"Because every time I see you, I see something new." He turned to face her, his shirt hanging open, his chest golden and scarred and beautiful. "Something I haven't discovered yet. Something I haven't claimed."
She reached him, pressing her palms flat against his chest. The hair there was coarse against her skin, the muscle beneath hard and unyielding. She could feel his heart beating—faster than she had ever known an Original's heart to beat. "Then claim it, Papa."
He kissed her then, deep and slow, his hands coming up to cup her face. She melted into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his open shirt, pulling him closer. His tongue swept across her lower lip, demanding entry, and she gave it to him freely, opening herself to him completely.
His hands trailed down her body, finding her breasts, cupping them, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened to peaks. She arched into his touch, a low moan building in her throat. He swallowed it with the kiss, devouring her sound as if it were something precious.
"I want to taste every inch of you," he murmured against her lips. "I want to know your body the way I know my own."
"Then taste me."
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, cradling her against his chest, and carried her to the tub. The steam curled around them, hot and wet, and she could feel the heat radiating from the water even before he lowered her into it. She gasped as the water closed around her, the temperature shocking at first, then soothing, then arousing in a way she hadn't expected.
Klaus knelt beside the tub, his hands finding the soap and a washcloth. "Lean back," he instructed, his voice gentler than she ever heard him speak to anyone but her. "Close your eyes."
She obeyed, sinking into the water until it lapped at her collarbone. The rose petals clustered against her skin, clinging like tiny crimson kisses. She felt his hands on her ankles first, lifting one leg onto the rim of the tub. He washed her foot, his fingers working the soap into her arch, between her toes, with a reverence that made her breath catch.
"You have beautiful feet," he said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. "Long, elegant. You'd break a man's heart just by walking away."
"I'd rather break something else," she replied, and she heard him laugh.
He worked his way up her leg, the washcloth gliding over her calf, her knee, her thigh. When he reached the junction of her legs, he paused. The washcloth hovered over her skin, the anticipation almost unbearable.
"Part your legs for me, darling."
She did, a small movement that felt like the most intimate thing she had ever done. The water shifted around her, and she felt cool air against her slick heat. His hand slid up her inner thigh, the washcloth dragging against her skin, and then he found her. The pressure of the cloth against her cunt was soft, barely there, and yet she gasped like she'd been struck.
He washed her slowly. Deliberately. The cloth traced the outline of her vulva, sliding through her folds, dipping into her heat. She whimpered, gripping the edges of the tub, her knuckles gone white.
"Please, Papa—"
"Please what?" His voice was innocent, but his eyes burned. "Please keep going? Please stop?"
A single finger pressed against her clit through the cloth, and she cried out. "Please don't stop."
He lapped at her skin, his breath hot against the water's edge, and she heard the low growl building in his chest. "Good girl."
He removed the washcloth and replaced it with his hand, his fingers finding her bare and wet and aching. He circled her clit with his thumb, pressing just hard enough to make her see colors behind her closed eyes.
"I want you to come," he said, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. "Come for me, Eve."
She shattered. Her back arched off the tub, her mouth open in a silent scream, her body convulsing around the pleasure he had built in her. He didn't stop, didn't relent, working her through the orgasm until she collapsed back into the water, limp and gasping.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "You are so fucking beautiful."
Her eyes fluttered open. "Your turn."
She sat up, water sluicing down her body, rose petals clinging to her skin. She shifted in the tub, moving to face him, her hands finding the waistband of his trousers. He stepped out of them, his cock springing free, hard and thick and glistening at the tip. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking the length, feeling every ridge and vein.
"Suck me," he said, and it wasn't a request.
She leaned forward, her lips parting, and took him into her mouth. He was too big to take all at once, but she worked him in, inch by inch, stretching her throat to accommodate him. He moaned, his fingers burying themselves in her wet hair, guiding her rhythm without forcing her.
That's it," he groaned. "Take me deep, little wolf. Fucking choke on it."
She did. She pushed until her nose brushed his pelvis, until she could feel him at the back of her throat, and she stayed there, her eyes watering, her body trembling with the effort. His grip on her hair tightened, and she felt the vibration of his growl through her skull.
"Enough." He pulled her off him, his length slick with her saliva, the head swollen and bright. "I need to be inside you."
He stepped into the tub, water sloshing over the rim as he positioned himself behind her. She braced her hands on the far edge of the claw-foot basin, arching her hips, offering herself to him. He took her by the waist, his fingers digging into her flesh, and dragged the head of his cock through her slick folds.
"You're soaked for me," he observed, his voice dark with satisfaction. "You're fucking dripping."
"Fuck me, Papa. Please, I need—"
He slammed into her, cutting off her words. She screamed—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. He filled her completely, bottoming out inside her, his hips flush against her ass. The water churned around them, sloshing over the edge of the tub, drenching the marble floor. He gave her no time to adjust. He pulled out nearly all the way and then slammed back in, setting a brutal pace that made the tub bang against the wall with every thrust.
"That's it," he growled, his voice animalistic, feral. "Take my cock. Fucking take it."
She was gasping, moaning, a string of obscenities falling from her lips as he pounded into her. The angle was perfect, his cock stroking her deepest, most sensitive places. Every thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through her body, building her higher and higher, a pressure so intense it bordered on pain.
"You're mine," he snarled, his fingers bruising her hips. "This tight little cunt is mine. Who does it belong to?"
"Yours!" she sobbed. "It's yours, Papa, only yours!"
"What are you?" He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back, arching her spine. "Say it."
"I'm your little slut," she gasped. "I'm your perfect little whore. I was made to take your cock, Papa. I was made to be fucked by you."
He roared, his rhythm becoming erratic, desperate. She could feel herself tightening around him, the orgasm building like a tidal wave. He reached around her, his fingers finding her clit, pinching it hard, and she shattered.
Her orgasm crashed over her like a hurricane, swallowing her whole. She screamed his name, her body convulsing around him, clenching so hard she worried she might break him. He followed her a heartbeat later, his hands yanking her backwards onto his cock as he came, filling her with his release, hot and thick and perfect.
They stayed like that for a long moment, joined together in the cooling water. The rose petals had scattered during their frenzy, some floating on the surface, some plastered to their slick bodies like broken flower crowns. Klaus wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest, his cock still buried inside her.
"I love you, Eve," he murmured against her hair. "I love you more than anything in this world or any other."
She turned her head, meeting his eyes. "And I love you, Papa. More than I will ever love anyone else."
He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. Then, gently, he slipped out of her. The water was pink with their mingled fluids, and he reached for a bar of soap.
"Let me wash you," he said. "Let me make you clean."
He soaped his hands and began to wash her, slow and methodical, starting with her shoulders, her arms, her breasts. She closed her eyes and let him. She let him clean the sweat and the sex and the rose petals from her skin, let him tend to her with the same reverence he had used to unravel her.
When the water grew cold, he drained the tub and wrapped her in a thick towel, rubbing warmth back into her limbs. He dried her hair with another towel, his movements deft and practiced, then lifted her in his arms and carried her to his bedroom.
The bed was massive, draped in dark linens, the pillows soft as clouds. He laid her down and climbed in beside her, pulling the covers over them both. The cracked mirror in the bathroom was a distant memory, a fracture in a world that no longer mattered.
In the safety of his arms, Eve drifted toward sleep, her body humming with pleasure and exhaustion. She could feel him still awake, his fingers tracing patterns on her bare back, his heart beating steady and strong beneath her cheek.
"What are you thinking about?" she murmured.
"About how lucky I am," he said. "To have you. To be the one who gets to love you."
She smiled against his skin. "You'll always be the one, Papa. Always."
He kissed the top of her head. "Sleep, little wolf. Tomorrow, I have something to show you."
"What?"
"Surprises are better when they're kept."
She wanted to argue, but the warmth of his body and the safety of his arms were already pulling her under. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the last thing she saw before sleep claimed her was the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across the ceiling, and her father's watchful gaze, filled with promises she couldn't wait to discover.