Chapter 31 #2
Her heart stumbled. She hated the way her breath caught at the honesty in his voice.
He watched her carefully, his eyes no longer sharp but steady. “You’re trembling,” he said softly. “You’ve burned yourself from the inside out. Aether doesn’t take kindly to those who give too much.”
She hesitated. Then, with a small exhale, she stepped behind the dressing screen, muttering as she moved, “Still insufferable.”
“You like it,” he called back, voice maddeningly smooth. “I’ll be just here,” he said, setting down a folded towel on a nearby bench.
She gave him a look. “Are you always this helpful?”
“Only for you,” he said, and walked to the edge of the bath.
She didn’t answer. She raised her sleeping gown with slow, deliberate movements, the pain blooming along her arms sharper now that the air touched the burns.
The towel she wrapped around herself was thick and soft, embroidered with the House Dareth and royal house crests. She scowled at it on principle.
When she stepped out from behind the screen moments later, she wore only the towel, wrapped snug across her chest and barely brushing the tops of her thighs. The burn lines on her arms had begun to redden again. Her muscles trembled with each slow step toward the bath.
Thorne turned, eyes tracking her progress.
“I’ll help you in,” he said.
She stopped at the edge of the water, heart pounding. The steam curled around her thighs, warm and inviting. Her fingers gripped the towel tightly.
“You’re going to have to drop it, you know,” Thorne said, his voice a mixture of teasing and restraint. “It’s difficult to bathe with something on, even the royal towels.”
Her breath stilled in her throat. She stared at the water, then at him. He wasn’t mocking her. He wasn’t leering. But there was something in his expression, a flicker of tension in his jaw. There was barely veiled hunger in his eyes that made the moment feel heavier than it should.
“If you want me to turn my head, I will,” he said quietly.
She swallowed, gaze flicking up to meet his. “Do you want to turn your head?”
He paused and thought to himself. There’s that sharp-tongued, wicked beauty I’ve been waiting to see again. That sexy, smirking half-smile returned to his face, but softer, slower.
“There is nothing more that I would like to do than look at your perfect, beautiful body,” he said, voice lower now, roughened. “But I understand if you’re feeling modest in this situation.”
Heat surged through her, not just in her face, but low in her belly, sparking a tension she hadn’t expected. She saw it mirrored in him, too, in the way his posture had stiffened, how his hands curled at his sides like he didn’t trust them.
She breathed in. Once. Twice. Then let the towel fall. It slid from her fingers and dropped to the floor with a whisper.
Thorne’s breath caught. His eyes raked over her slowly, reverently, no crude glances, no smirk. Only awe.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said hoarsely. “You have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.”
She felt bare in every way, and somehow, not vulnerable. Not when he looked at her like that. Like she was powerful. Like she was sacred.
She stepped into the bath with care, wincing as the heat met the Aether burns. Then, sighing as the pain gave way to something, healing. She lowered herself until the water reached her shoulders, eyes closing with relief.
The heat stung her first. Fire licked every inch of exposed skin.
Her breath hitched, and a gasp broke from her lips before she could silence it.
The bruised ache along her ribs flared hot, her arms lit with fire, but then the pain ebbed and dissolved again, until all that remained was warmth and the slow uncoiling of muscles long clenched in silence.
She sank deeper, resting her back against the stone lip. Her eyes closed. She let out a low, unguarded groan as her body floated, weightless and alive.
Then she heard the soft shift of footsteps behind her.
Thorne knelt at the edge of the basin, his knees resting on a plush mat. His sleeves were still rolled up, arms braced both sides of a carved wooden pitcher. His hair, damp at the ends, curled slightly at the base of his neck.
“May I?” he asked quietly.
She opened her eyes. Saw the pitcher. Saw the restraint in his posture.
She gave a slow nod.
He dipped the pitcher, then poured the warm water over her hair.
It slid down her crown, over her temples and nape, drawing another soft exhale from her.
His fingers followed, threading gently through her hair as he worked the oil into her scalp.
The strokes were careful and reverent. The kind of touch that didn’t seek to possess, only to ease.
The rhythm of his hands lulled her. She let herself fall into it, not needing to brace herself. His presence wasn’t demanding. Only steady.
“You really don’t mind?” she asked, voice feather-light.
“No,” he said. Just that. No conditions.
He rinsed her hair again, brushing loose strands from her neck, his fingers ghosting over the edge of her collarbone. Then he took a folded cloth and dipped it into the water, wringing it out with slow precision. She felt the touch of it against her shoulder, soft as breath.
She could feel the tension in him, like he was holding something back. Like the way he touched her wasn’t only gentleness, but reverence carved with restraint. Moments passed. The water shifted behind her.
Then his voice, lower now: “May I wash you?”
She opened her eyes, breath fluttering.
He held the cloth in one hand, damp and soaped, waiting.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His strokes were slow. He started at her shoulder, careful around the burns, and dragged the cloth across her collarbone, her upper arms, and her throat. Each pass was measured. Controlled. But his breathing was not.
Neither was hers.
His fingers lingered at the curve of her back, at the dip of her waist where skin met water. He never crossed the line, but his nearness, his restraint, was its own kind of torment.
She could feel the tension radiating from him, heat coiled beneath the surface, barely held in check. Her pulse thrummed in her neck, wild and traitorous.
When he finally set the cloth aside, he began to rise.
She caught his hand. Her fingers curled around his wrist. The warmth of the bath masked the heat in her skin, but not the shiver that ran through her.
“Stay,” she said, her voice low.
He stilled. Then, slowly, Thorne nodded. He started to lower himself to the edge of the tub, hands braced to kneel beside her again.
“No,” she said. Her voice was low and breathless. It held a different kind of command this time. “I want you to come in with me.”
His eyes flicked to hers, something unreadable stirring in the depths. A long pause stretched between them. Then, the air was charged and thick with rising heat, and he stood.
Thaelyn sat forward in the water, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, watching.
He reached for the edge of his tunic, fingers curling around the hem. His eyes never left hers as he pulled it slowly over his head.
Her breath caught in her throat before she could stop it.
His chest was all carved angles and tensioned strength.
Every muscle defined from years of combat, sun-browned and battle-scarred.
Across his chest and curling down the ridges of his ribs stretched the black, burnished mark of Vornokh, his dragon sigil.
It shimmered faintly under the sconces, like ink alive with fire.
Her gaze dropped. She couldn’t help it.
His abdomen was sculpted and taut, the lines of each muscle perfectly defined, from the curve beneath his ribs to the sharp V that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
A water droplet dripped down his chest from a loose tendril of his hair that had fallen when he took his tunic off.
The droplet of water trailed over his sternum and down to his navel.
Her eyes followed and watched in delight.
Her breath came shallow now. Her heartbeat was beating faster with every passing second.
She didn’t know where to look, except that she couldn’t not look.
He began unfastening the silver buttons at the waist of his trousers, one by one, slowly and methodically. His hands were sure, unhurried, and each sound, the soft pop of a button, the brush of fabric loosening, ratcheted the tension tighter.
When he stepped out of the trousers, he revealed powerful thighs shaped by years of training.
Her breath faltered again. His legs were long and solid, dusted with fine dark hair, calves cut from stone.
Every motion was fluid and sure, the muscles flexing and releasing as he moved.
Her eyes followed the line of his thigh to the curve of his ass, strong, perfect, and unapologetically male.
Then his thumbs hooked into the band of his underclothes, pausing. “I’m about to be fully naked in front of you,” he said, voice rougher now. “If you’d prefer to look away…”
Thaelyn growled low, the sound slipping out of her throat like a warning. “No.”
A slow smile curved his lips, hungry and amused all at once. “Didn’t think so.”
He slid the last barrier from his body and let it fall to the floor.
She felt the flush rising across her chest and cheeks, her breath locked somewhere between want and awe. She had seen Thorne in battle, in training, shirtless, sweat-drenched, cursing and furious. But this was different.
He stood bare before her without armor, without shadows, without pretense. Just heat, firelight dancing across his skin, and raw power wrapped in restraint. Thaelyn thought to herself, Gods, he was the most beautiful man I have ever seen.