Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Rydian
She stood before me, shoulders rising and falling like she’d just run a mile instead of crossing a cabin.
Sunlight cut across her profile from the window, catching the smudge of travel-dust on her cheek, the shadows under her eyes, the stubborn tilt to her chin.
The need to touch every inch of her had driven me across the realm just as powerfully as the need to make her safe again.
And now, finally, we were alone.
For the first time in too long, there were no obsidian-eyed soldiers, no naiad judging my worth. No thrones. No gods. No blood vows. No Heliconia.
Just her. Standing before me like some kind of holy offering.
I took a step toward her, then another.
A pulse of nerves flickered across her face, quickly masked.
“Don’t,” I said quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“Second-guess this. Or me.”
“You were very clear before. About not letting this happen ever again.”
“I see things differently now.”
“Is that so?”
I hummed. “Almost losing you—twice—helped to clarify what matters.”
I lifted my hand. Shadows crawled up the log walls at my gesture, darkening every knot and seam. A second curl of power slid under the door and along the cracks in the floorboards, sealing every gap with thick, velvety darkness.
The sounds of the cabin—murmurs of Keres and Vanya in the kitchen, Callan’s movements in the far room—muffled, then vanished altogether. The air went soft. Close.
Aurelia glanced around, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”
“Soundproofed us.” I let my shadows settle like a curtain around the room, coating the window, masking everything that existed outside these walls. “No one hears anything that happens in here unless I allow it.”
She swallowed. I watched the movement of her throat like I’d been starved for it.
“Do you expect there to be a lot of noise?” she asked.
I stepped into her space, close enough to feel the heat of her body through my shirt. My hand braced against the doorframe beside her head, caging her in without touching her. And I let my lips curve into the smile that conveyed the depth of my intentions as I said, “I certainly hope so.”
She shivered, and the sight of it only fed my hunger for her.
My gaze dropped to her mouth, then back. “I’m going to spend the rest of the night coaxing every noise you’re capable of making from that pretty little mouth of yours.”
Her hand curled in the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer, but I stepped back.
“Bath first,” I cut in gently.
She blinked. “What?”
“We’ve been walking for days. Your shoulders are one big knot. There’s dirt in your hair.” I let my fingers hover near a streak of dirt along her collarbone, not quite touching. Her breath hitched anyway. “I’m going to take care of you tonight. All of you. Starting with that bath.”
Suspicion warred with desire in her eyes. “You just want to undress me.”
“Obviously,” I said. “I’m not a saint, Princess.” I leaned in, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “But I intend to enjoy every step of the process. And so will you.”
A shiver rippled down her spine. Her grip on my shirt tightened—this time, dragging me closer. “Bossy.”
I smirked. “Get used to it. I’m the heir to a throne, too, after all.”
I pulled back and let my hand fall from the door. For a second, she stayed pressed where she was, as if testing whether I’d keep her pinned there. Tempting. Very tempting. But tonight was about drawing this out, not slamming her against the wood and losing my mind.
Later, maybe.
I turned toward the adjoining bathing chamber instead. The cabin was simple, but we’d stocked it well. A copper tub sat near the window, empty, waiting. I flicked my shadows toward the ceiling, banked them, and reached for the lever.
The water flowed, hot enough to cloud the air with steam.
Behind me, I could feel Aurelia watching as I poured a bottle of oil into the water. The scent of lavender filled the air.
When the bath was ready, I turned back to her.
“Come here,” I said.
She came forward slowly as if she wasn’t sure of this side of me. I didn’t bother to admit that neither was I. I’d never taken care of anyone like this before. Never wanted to.
I stopped her with a hand on her hip.
“Look at me,” I said.
She lifted her gaze. There it was—that flicker of trust she tried so hard to hide, softer than the rest of her, vulnerable and lethal all at once.
“We don’t know what’s coming next,” I said quietly. “We don’t know how long we have. So, if you want this, Furious… don’t hold back. Don’t brace for it to be taken away. Take it.” I slid my knuckles along her cheek. “Take me. Just as I will take you—if you’re still offering.”
Something in her eyes broke open at that. She exhaled, a rough, shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob, and nodded once.
“Let me undress you,” I murmured.
Her breath caught, but she didn’t argue.
She turned around, and I went to work on the laces of her tunic. When it was undone, I pulled the garment over her head, baring the golden line of her shoulders, the sweep of her back, the marks she bore. Scars. Freckles. Gods, she was beautiful.
“Turn around,” I said, voice rougher than I intended.
She obeyed, and I reached for her trousers, unbuttoning them and shucking them down her legs until they were on the floor. Her undergarments went next, sliding away until she was standing in the soft candlelight in nothing at all.
For a long, delicious moment, I allowed myself to look.
It was a gift I hadn’t allowed myself the first time I’d come to her.
Back then, everything had felt urgent and final.
Like a goodbye. I couldn’t bear the idea of looking at what I was losing.
This felt like a beginning. And I was damn sure going to take my time saying hello.
Her shoulders were elegant, sloped like the promise of sunrise.
Her breasts—full, soft, lifted slightly as she drew in a nervous breath—made heat coil low and hard inside me.
Her waist dipped gently, drawing my gaze down the smooth line of her stomach to the flare of her hips…
the place where tendrils of my shadows whispered greedily along her thighs as if they, too, wanted permission to touch her. To make her moan.
Gods. I had never wanted anything like this.
Her shoulders tightened under the weight of my gaze. “Say something,” she muttered.
“I am,” I said, unable to fight off the smile. “I’m just using my eyes.”
Color flared high on her cheeks. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes.” I brushed a thumb lightly over a faint scar at her ribs. “And you are perfect.”
Her breath hitched.
I took her hand and led her toward the tub. Steam curled around us, wrapping her in warmth and scent. I steadied her as she stepped in, the water rising around her calves, her thighs, her hips. She sank down with a sigh that punched straight through my chest.
“That good?” I murmured.
She closed her eyes, letting her head tip back against the rim. “You have no idea.”
I knelt beside the tub, ignoring the way the floor dug into my knees, and rolled up my sleeves.
“Sit up,” I said gently. “Let me see you.”
Her lids fluttered open. She shifted, turning slightly toward me, arms resting on the edge. Loose strands of hair clung damply to her neck.
I dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out, and touched it to her shoulder. She flinched—not from pain, but from sensation, every line of her body tensing, then easing as the heat soaked into sore muscles.
“You don’t have to—” she began.
“I want to.” I dragged the cloth slowly along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm, over the small raised ridges of scars. “Let me.”
She went quiet, her cheeks flushing deliciously.
I worked in silence for a while. Water lapped gently at the sides of the tub as I bathed her, every touch an exploration.
The back of her neck, where tension always lived.
The line of her collarbone, where I’d wanted to put my mouth too many times to count.
The elegant shape of her wrist, fragile and deceptively strong.
Her breathing changed, growing deeper, more uneven. Every time my fingers brushed skin instead of cloth, a little spark jumped between us.
“Rydian,” she said eventually, voice low. “This is… cruel.”
At my next touch, a sound broke from her, half exasperated, half wild. “You—”
“Lean forward,” I instructed.
She did, arms folding on the rim so she could rest her head on them. The movement bared her back to me—tension-strung muscles, fine lines of strength, soft curves that invited me closer. I let my palm follow the path the cloth had taken, the touch a bare whisper over damp skin.
She shivered.
It turned into a soft, involuntary sound when I found another knot and worked it loose.
“Better?” I asked.
She didn’t answer with words, just melted into my hands.
I took my time with her back, cataloging every inch with my touch, my mind. When I finally let my hands skim down along her sides, just above the waterline, her breath stuttered.
“Still with me?”
She nodded against her arms.
“Good.” I leaned in a little closer, letting my mouth hover near her ear. “Because I’m nowhere near done.”
I set the cloth aside, dipped my fingers into the warm water, and let my hands explore more boldly. Over the curve of her shoulder. Down the slope of her spine. Along the edge of her ribs, where the rise and fall of each breath felt like a prayer under my palms.
She shifted restlessly in the water, thighs pressing together. Magic shivered under her skin, a low, restless hum that synced with the thrum of my own.
“You’re shaking,” I murmured.
“You’re torturing me,” she shot back, voice frayed.
“Not torture,” I said. My fingers traced idle patterns on her hip, stroking slow, lazy circles. “This is worship.”
“You’re—” Her breath broke as I let my hands slide a fraction lower, still not quite where she wanted them. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that,” I said. “And yet, here you are.”