Chapter 56 #2
The bathing chamber was dimly lit, the air thick with steam. The tub was built into the floor, deep and wide, steam curling from the surface of the dark water. Ashterion set me down on the edge, before pulling back. His hands lingered for a breath too long.
“If you dip the leg in first,” he said, adjusting the sleeve of his tunic. ”It should make it possible to undress on your own.”
I stopped listening.
Because my gaze had drifted past him, over his shoulder, to the empty frame in the wall.
Ashterion had already straightened, turning, moving away.
“There’s no door,” I said flatly.
Ashterion didn’t so much as pause. “How observant.”
“You expect me to bathe.” My hands curled into fists against the cool stone. “While you could walk in at any moment?”
“I expect you to bathe.” His tone bore the slightest hint of irritation. “What I choose to do with my time in my own chambers is hardly your concern.”
Without another word he turned and walked out.
I stared at his back, hatred burning in my throat. Every instinct screamed at me to refuse, to fight, to maintain what little dignity I had left. But beneath that was the cold, hard truth—I was powerless here. Whatever game Ashterion was playing, I had no choice but to participate.
With a bitter curse under my breath, I gripped the edge of the stone tub as I lowered my leg into the water.
The second it was submerged the pain faded.
Instant. Overwhelming.
An almost unbearable contrast to the unending agony I had grown used to.
The heat seeped into my skin, spreading through the shattered bone, loosening the relentless grip of pain.
Gods. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to sit straighter. Forcing myself to remember.
Do not let your guard down.
Ashterion had given me relief, this brief escape from pain. But he had done so with a purpose. He always had a purpose.
I would not forget that. Instinctively, I glanced back through the doorway. Ashterion stood with his back to me, hunched over a desk.
Swallowing hard, I reached for the hem of my torn, bloodstained tunic. Every motion was slow, testing—my ribs ached, my arms stiff from healing bruises, from strain.
But even now, with only steam coiling around me, with no one in sight, my hands trembled as I pulled the ruined fabric over my head.
I let it drop to the floor. The steam clung to my bare skin, the air thick and humid, curling against the bruises, the scars, the too-pale places where old wounds had finally healed.
With one last bracing breath, I slid into the bath.
The moment I was submerged, the heat wrapped around me, sinking deep into every aching muscle, every bruised inch of skin. But more than that, the tonic.
It worked fast. Almost unnervingly so.
The worst of the pain dulled, the ache in my ribs easing, the scrapes and bruises fading beneath the surface. If I had been in any other situation, I might have let myself relax.
But my leg—my gods-damned leg—was all I cared about.
The relief there was slower, the pain lingering, the deep throb pulsing through the bone. But it was less. Manageable. A breath slipped past my teeth, slow and forced. My fingers flexing beneath the water as my body adjusted to the absence of agony.
I willed myself not to think about how much I had needed this, how much I had wanted this relief, how I would have agreed to almost anything if it meant an end to that constant, gnawing pain.
Don’t think about that.
I stayed there, floating, weightless. My hair fanned around me in the water, my heartbeat a steady thrum in my ears.
Then, without leaving the warmth of the bath, I reached beneath the water, fingers finding the waistband of my filthy, torn pants. I sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth, and pulled.
The fabric slid free, and I tossed them aside with a soft, wet slap against the stone.
I did not think about how vulnerable it made me. How exposed.
Instead, I focused on scrubbing myself clean.
The water darkened, murky with blood and grime.
But in a blink it cleared, pristine and untouched once more.
I ran the bar of soap over my arms again. My stomach. My shoulders. There was nothing left to scrub. But I did it anyway. Then I reached for my hair, my fingers working through the tangled mess, lathering it again. The water turned cloudy, strands floating weightless around me.
Again the bath cleaned itself and warmed up, wrapping around me as I let my body sink lower, let the magic—whatever the hell was in this tonic—continue to work its way into my leg, into my ribs, into every bruise and ache.
I didn’t want to get out.
Didn’t want to step back into that room where Ashterion was waiting.
Didn’t want the weight of his stare, the calculation in his gaze.
The tub was safe. Quiet.
So, I stayed.
Long past when I should have, long past when I had already scrubbed myself raw, long past when the pain in my body had dulled to an ache instead of the overwhelming pain I’d grown accustomed to.
But finally, I knew I couldn’t linger any longer. I swallowed, forced my muscles to move, then braced. One hand gripping the ledge of the tub. My foot pressing lightly against the edge.
A slow inhale. I pushed. Pain flared. A bone deep ache, but only an ache. Not the unbearable, splintering agony it had been before.
I swallowed hard, pressing my foot down a little more, testing. The soreness was there, uncomfortable, but bearable.
I stepped out of the tub, spotting fresh clothing folded on a marble bench. I dressed quickly, my limbs jerky.
I moved back into the main chamber, my damp hair clinging to my neck and my skin tingling from whatever fae magic had been woven into the water. My steps were slow, my spine straight despite the exhaustion that pressed down on me.
Ashterion had moved.
He was lounging in an armchair near the hearth, one leg crossed over the other, his elbow rested on the armrest as he regarded me with that same infuriating calm. The shadows curled lazily along the floor, watching me without eyes.
With a lazy wave of his hand, a covered bowl of steaming stew appeared on a small table before me, along with a simple wooden chair. The scent hit me instantly—rich, savoury, spiced. My stomach twisted violently, both from hunger and from the wariness curling tight in my gut.
“Eat,” he said, his tone smooth. “Then we’ll talk.” He turned his attention from me then, plucking a book off the table and flipping it open.
My body was screaming at me to sit, to eat, to take what was offered, because gods knew when my next meal would come. But my pride kept me rooted in place.
“I don’t trust you,” I said flatly.
Ashterion didn’t even glance up. “Good,” he said. “Now, eat.”
I hesitated for only a second longer before finally stepping forward. Not because he had ordered me to, but because my body needed it. Because whatever came next, I wouldn’t face it weakened.
The chair scraped against the floor as I pulled it out and sat. The steam curled up from the stew, rich with the scent of meat and herbs, and my stomach twisted again, painfully hollow.
It would be a lie to say I wasn’t tempted to throw the entire bowl into his lap.
Instead, I took a small, cautious bite. The warmth spread through me instantly, filling the ache in my gut. But I kept my face neutral, a refusal to show anything that might resemble gratitude.
Ashterion let out a quiet chuckle. “See? Not so difficult, is it?”
I shot him a glare and shovelled another bite into my mouth to keep from snapping a retort that would make him retaliate in some unseen way.
The silence stretched between us as I ate, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of pages as Ashterion turned them. I stared at my food and refused to look at him, to acknowledge his presence more than necessary.
When I finally set down my spoon, the bowl empty, Ashterion closed his book with a snap.
“Better?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, just lifted my chin, met him with defiance burning in my eyes.
Ashterion gestured lazily to the armchair beside him. “Join me.”
I tensed.
It wasn’t a request.
I considered a refusal anyway, but there was no point in antagonising him further. Not when I was already at a disadvantage.
The chair was plush, far too comfortable for the cold tension that hummed through my body as I sank into it. My fingers curled around the armrests, bracing myself, but Ashterion merely leaned back as he turned his attention toward the fire.
For a long moment, we sat in silence.
I stared at him, at the way the light flickered against his features and cast shadows that only deepened the mysteries surrounding him.
I didn’t want to ask.
Didn’t want to need to ask.
But the question had been clawing at the back of my mind since the moment I stepped into this fucking room. “Why the hell did you warn me?”
Ashterion stilled, as if I’d struck something he hadn’t expected.
Slowly, he turned his head, meeting my gaze.
“I wonder.” His lips curled. Not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer. “Do you truly believe I owe you an answer?”
My hands tightened on the armrests. “No. But I’m asking anyway.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You assume it was a kindness,” he murmured. “That I warned you out of some sense of pity, or regret.”
“Wasn’t it?”
He looked away.
I didn’t relent, my voice quieter now, but no less pointed. “You didn’t want me to die.”
“No.”
A confession. A breath.
As soon as the word left him, regret brushed over his face.
His shoulders stiffened and his expression closed off as quickly as it had cracked. He leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the arm of his chair. “Don’t mistake that for mercy, Isara.”
I scoffed. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ashterion studied me with unsettling intensity as the firelight danced across his features. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence that stretched between us almost alive.
“No,” he finally said, “I don’t believe you would.”
I held his gaze despite the unease crawling beneath my skin. This close, I could see the subtle patterns in his midnight-blue eyes, flecks of sliver, stars embedded in an endless void.
His expression remained the same. A game he was used to playing. A mask he wore effortlessly.
But I had seen the crack in it.
I leaned forward. “Why do you seem so irritated when your wife has you hurt us?”
Ashterion’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you flinched.”
The smirk on his face weakened.
“You didn’t watch what you were doing. You looked away. Like you didn’t want to see it.”
His features tightened for a heartbeat before he smoothed it away.
A near-silent chuckle escaping Ashterion as he studied me anew. “You’re observant.”
“And you didn’t answer my question.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and humming.
“I find her tiresome,” he murmured finally, his tone was smooth, but the words were jagged underneath. “And when you’re as accustomed to cruelty as I am…” He sighed, almost bored. “Indulging her less creative methods is rather dull.”
The chill started slowly, curling down my spine as the realisation took shape.
Not because of the statement itself, but because of the way he said it.
Flat. Detached.
Like cruelty was another expectation he’d grown weary of fulfilling.
I stared at Ashterion, trying to read past the composed mask he wore. Was he lying? Playing some new game with me? The shadows in the room deepened as I studied him, attempting to shield him from what I might see.
“Less creative methods,” I repeated, not bothering to hide my disgust. “Is that what you call torture? A lack of creativity?”
“Call it what you will. The result is the same.”
“And what result is that?” I challenged, my hands gripping the armrests so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Breaking us? Making us beg? Is that what you want?”
Ashterion’s lips curved. “What I want is irrelevant.”
“Bullshit.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “Or perhaps not. Does it matter?”
The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sculpted angles of his cheekbones, the subtle tension in his jaw.
I watched him, expressionless. “It matters, because you fixed my leg.”