Chapter 18 #2
He smiled. "You won't. That warmth in your chest won't let you. It wants to be exactly where you are - with me, under my hands, learning what it means to be truly claimed."
The water examined her with the patience of a predator.
Steam rose from the bath's surface, carrying scents of pine and bitter herbs and something older, magic that had soaked into these stones for centuries.
The bathroom itself was carved from the living rock of the castle, lit by phosphorescent moss that made the water look black as ink, broken only by the occasional ripple of silver.
Briar stood at the edge, acutely aware of every mark Eliam had left. The bite at her throat throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Bruises bloomed across her arms like dark flowers. Her palm still wept blood where he'd erased Arion's kiss with teeth.
But worse than the physical marks was that warmth in her chest. It was quiet now, patient, waiting to see what would happen next.
"The water won't bite." Eliam's voice came from behind her. "That's my prerogative."
She hadn't heard him return. He moved through his own domain like shadow, present and absent by will alone.
Now he stood just behind her, close enough that she felt the cold radiating from him but not touching.
Making her wait. Making her wonder. When she glanced back, she saw he'd removed his shirt, the lean muscle of his chest marked with faint scars she hadn't expected. Old ones, silver against his skin.
The warmth in her own chest pulsed suddenly, reaching toward him with an intensity that made her turn away quickly.
"I can—" She started to say she could bathe herself, but the words died as his hands settled on her shoulders.
"You can what?" His thumbs traced the curve where neck met shoulder, careful to press against the bite he'd left. Without the barrier of his shirt, she could feel the heat of him, not cold as she'd expected, but burning like winter fever. "Wash away another male's touch by yourself? I think not."
She tried not to react to his skin against hers, to the way the warmth in her chest seemed to sing at the contact. This was about possession, she reminded herself. Control. Not the way her traitorous body wanted to lean back into him.
He guided her forward, and the water rose to meet her like a living thing.
The first step sent shock through her, not from the heat, though it was hot enough to sting.
The water itself was as aware as the water in her own tub, yet different, investigating, cataloguing every place she'd been touched.
"All the way in." His hands never left her shoulders, steadying or controlling, impossible to say which. "Let it know you."
The water swirled around her calves, her thighs, her waist. Where it touched the marks he'd made, it purred approval. Where it found traces of Arion, and somehow it did find them, invisible threads of foreign magic, it hissed displeasure.
When she was waist-deep, he stopped her. "Kneel."
The command made no sense, the water would cover her face, but her body obeyed before her mind could protest. As she sank down, the water parted, forming a pocket of air around her head while still examining every inch below.
"Clever, isn't it?" He moved to the edge, settling with casual grace on the carved stone. His shirt was gone leaving him in dark trousers that made his pale skin look carved from moonlight. "The bath knows what belongs and what doesn't. What's mine and what's... trespassing."
The water grew warmer where it found his marks, almost soothing. But where it sensed Arion's touch—her lips, her hands, the places his clothes had pressed during dancing—it turned aggressive. Not painful exactly, but thorough. Scrubbing away foreign magic like it was personally offended.
"Your hair," Eliam said, and she realized he'd moved. He sat behind her now on the bath's edge, legs framing where she knelt. "He touched it, didn't he? When you danced."
Before she could answer, his hands were in her hair, working it free from the braids she had put it in for the festival. The careful plaits came undone beneath his fingers, and he pulled her head back until it rested against his thigh.
"The water needs to reach everything," he explained, but his touch was possessive rather than practical. He guided her back until her hair floated in the dark water, his fingers working through the strands with methodical patience. "Every place he might have left his mark."
The position left her vulnerable, her throat exposed, her body displayed beneath the water's surface. That warmth in her chest pulsed brighter at the contact, at being handled by him even like this.
"There's something different about you," he mused, fingers still working through her hair. The water responded to his touch, turning warmer, almost playful where he guided it. "Something that wasn't there before."
"The mark is spreading," she offered, voice tight.
"No. Not that." His nails scraped lightly against her scalp, sending involuntary shivers through her. "This."
His hand moved from her hair to press against her chest, right over that warmth. The moment he touched it directly, it flared: bright, hot, reaching. She gasped, back arching, and the water swirled excitedly around her.
"Interesting." He didn't remove his hand, just held it there, feeling whatever that warmth was doing. "It recognizes me. Reaches for me. But it reached for him too, didn't it?"
She couldn't lie. Not with his hand right over it, feeling its reactions. "Yes."
"Tell me how it felt. When he touched you. When he kissed you." His other hand returned to her hair, holding her in place. "What did this warmth do?"
"It... pulsed. Reached. Like it was trying to..." She struggled for words.
"Connect?" His voice had gone thoughtful. "Like calling to like?"
"I don't understand it."
"No. But you felt it." His hand pressed harder against her chest, and the warmth sang in response. "Did it confuse you? Feeling this while kissing another? Did you wonder why your body burned for someone gentle when it was made for cruelty?"
The water swirled higher, responding to his mood. Where it touched her, she felt his magic more clearly—dark and vast and patient as winter. But underneath that, in the places where that warmth pulsed strongest, she felt something else. Something that reminded her of—
"Starlight," she breathed.
His hands stilled for a moment in her hair. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. I just—" But she couldn't take it back. "The warmth. When you touch it directly. It feels like darkness but also... light. Both. Neither."
His hand moved to press against her chest, right over that pulsing heat. She felt it flare in response, reaching for him with desperate intensity.
"Tell me how it felt," he said, voice lower now. "When he touched you. When he kissed you. What did this warmth do?"
"It... pulsed. Reached."
"And with me?"
She shouldn't answer, but the words came anyway. "Like burning. Like drowning in darkness that somehow feels like home."
Everything stopped.
His hands went motionless. The water stilled to glass. Even her breath caught at the sudden stillness in him, not the controlled calm he usually wielded but something raw underneath.
The word hung between them. Home.
Without warning, his hands moved under her arms, lifting. Water streamed from her body as he pulled her from the bath with urgent strength. No words. No explanation. Just movement born of something she couldn't identify.
Terror and anticipation warred in her chest. She knew she should fight, or scream, do anything but let him carry her like she belonged in his arms. But that treacherous warmth pulsed with such satisfaction that her resistance crumbled before it could properly form.
This is wrong, her mind insisted, even as her body curved into his chest. She had kissed Arion hours ago. Gentle, sweet Arion who offered freedom, not this beautiful monster who promised only captivity.
Her back hit the bed, water soaking immediately into the covers, but he didn't seem to notice or care. His hands framed her face, tilting it up, and when their eyes met, she saw something fractured in his control.
Then his mouth was on hers.
Not cruel like before. Not calculated. This was desperation barely leashed, the kiss of someone trying to confirm something through touch. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming and searching at once, while that warmth in her chest exploded outward in recognition.
She knew she should resist, that she should push him away. But her body betrayed every rational thought, arching into his hands, her fingers tangling in his still-dry hair, pulling him closer.
Self-loathing crashed through her even as she opened for him.
What kind of person responded like this to their captor?
What was wrong with her that cruelty made her burn while kindness left her conflicted?
The warmth sang between them, building with each point of contact, drowning out the voice in her head screaming that this was surrender, this was giving him exactly what he wanted.
He pulled back just enough to speak against her lips. "Home." The word came out rough, almost accusatory. "You dare call me that after—"
But he cut himself off with another kiss, harder this time. His hands moved over her still-wet skin with fevered purpose, relearning territory he'd already claimed. When he found the marks he'd left earlier, he pressed against them, drawing gasps that he swallowed.
The warmth guided him, showing him exactly where to touch to make her forget resistance.
His mouth followed the path of water droplets down her throat, teeth scraping over his earlier bite.
Lower, mapping her collarbone, the curve of her breast. Each touch made that warmth pulse brighter until she could almost see it behind closed eyes.