6 #2
I set the candles down on a flat area of the floor and take the bottle of soap. Vawn faces the passage through which we came, keeping his back to the pool.
I strip quietly, half-wishing he’d joke about wanting to see me naked… although I suppose there’s not much left that he hasn’t seen. In less than a day, I’ve lost the allure of being the latest addition to his retinue, and now I’m just the annoyance who orders him around.
Crouching at the pool’s edge, I peer at the bottom again, but the churning of the water prevents me from seeing clearly.
It looks as though there’s an aperture near the floor of the pool, allowing the water to drain out slowly as part of nature’s endless cycle.
That’s comforting, in a way. I wouldn’t want to swim and wash in a stagnant pond.
Why does it matter what’s at the bottom, anyway? What’s the difference between bones and stones? This is fine. The main goal is to get the stink of the journey off my skin.
“Are you in yet?” Vawn asks.
“Almost.” I set my bare bottom against the lip of the rock and lower my legs into the water. “It’s hot, but not unbearably so. Feels nice.”
He moves behind me, and I look around, startled, covering my breasts with my hands. But he still has his back turned—he only put down the extra towels and seated himself on the rough stone floor.
“Hurry, would you?” he says. “I can’t stay in here long.”
“Do you really believe in ghosts?” I ease into the pool, holding onto the edge, not allowing my feet to touch the bottom yet.
“I do.”
“Have you seen one?”
“Once, in an attic of the palace. But that’s not the only thing I hate about this place.
It’s the tunnel going deeper, to places we can’t see.
It’s the low ceiling and the rock all around.
It’s the holes, all those holes close together, and the knowledge that death lies here. ” His shoulders quake as he shudders.
Maybe I feel guilty for accusing him of his family’s murders, or maybe I pity his discomfort. Maybe I want to reward him for showing deeper, more genuine emotion. Whatever the reason, I find myself saying, “We could bathe together. It will take half the time.”
His head lifts. “If you’re trying to seduce me—”
“I would never. You’re not the sort of man I fuck.”
It’s almost the truth. So far my trysts have been with gruff, no-nonsense types, fellow soldiers or guards in training who did the job quickly and respectfully. Not that I wouldn’t consider altering my habits if the occasion called for it.
The prince doesn’t challenge my statement—another sign of how much he hates this place. I poke the objects at the bottom of the pool with my toes, refusing to watch as he disrobes.
He sits on the edge of the pool like I did, and I stare studiously at the catacombs while he gets into the water.
The constant bubbling of the spring stirs the surface and makes it difficult for either of us to see the other’s body clearly, but I still feel slightly panicked at being naked in the bath with him.
“Soap.” He beckons impatiently, and I hand him the bottle. He takes some and begins washing his chest and underarms without looking at me.
His nonchalance settles my pulse a bit, and I begin to wash myself as well.
When I tuck one of my soapy hands between my legs under the water, I catch him sending a swift glance my way.
I do that part of the washing as quickly and thoroughly as I can, and he does the same, cleansing his own privates while his back is turned to me.
With the essentials done, and no skeletons poking their heads out of the grave-holes, I begin to relax more, almost to the point of enjoying myself. At least it doesn’t smell awful here. A little damp, but earthy rather than rotten.
Arching back in the water, I dip my hair into the bath, then shake it out with my fingers.
When I blink away the droplets clinging to my lashes, Vawn is watching me openly, both hands working glistening suds into his own hair.
His eyes linger on my breasts, bare and wet and gleaming in the candlelight.
I sink lower in the water, concealing them beneath the film of bubbles from the soap we used.
The prince submerges himself entirely to rinse his hair, and he stays under so long that I move nearer, anxiously watching his movements.
When he finally emerges, the pink streaks in his hair are vibrant again, and his handsome face is free of last night’s makeup.
I moved so close that when he surfaces, we’re face to face. He wipes moisture from his lashes, blinking at me with those pale, unearthly eyes of his.
The stillness, the glimmering heat, the wisps of steam rising in the candlelight—it’s all intensified by the dark horror of the catacombs, the low overhang of the rock ceiling, and the knowledge that out there, in the world beyond the stone arch, there are people hunting us.
He and I are relatively secure here, for the moment. We’ve kept each other sane and safe, despite the worst political crisis in generations.
Well… I suppose “sane” is a subjective term, because I think my own sanity might be melting away through my skin into the water, leaving me a mindless, breathless little puppet whose entire focus is Vawn Molloi’s soft, wet lips.
He stands taller than I do; the water is mid-breast on him, shoulder-height on me.
But he lowers himself and shifts nearer, his head tilting.
The glint of his wet tongue flicks in the darkness of his mouth, between his parted lips.
My vision blurs, my senses soften, and my eyelids begin to close as I tip my face to meet him—
A raucous, hollow screech rips open the silence. The sound comes from somewhere far away, somewhere deep inside the hill, but it echoes along tunnels that adjoin this chamber.
I fling myself at Vawn, and he wraps me in both arms, pinned against his chest.
Only for a second. And then I remember my place.
He doesn’t protect me. I protect him.
“We should go,” I whisper. “Ghost, beast, madman—whatever that was, it doesn’t sound good, and I’d rather not meet it.”
“Agreed.” But his arms keep me locked against his body.
“Vawn.” I wriggle. “Let me go, or I’ll make you. You know I can.”
“Yes, I just… needed…” He exhales, opening his arms.
Snatching our towels, we dry our feet and shove them into our boots.
I don’t like the sensation of putting my clean toes back into my smelly boots, but it’s only until we get back to the room.
We’ll have to wear the same clothes until we purchase new ones, which I plan to do once we get to Zeletas.
I doubt a village this small has a clothing shop, and I’d rather not ask the landlady for castoff clothing, not after Vawn’s cover story.
She’d wonder why a married couple with a baby and family nearby would be begging for spare pants and shirts.
On our way out of the bath tomb, I blow out the candles and lock the door. Then we hurry back to our room, with Vawn’s head mostly concealed by its towel wrapping.
Safely inside, I drop my pauldron and belts in the corner. I take off my outer clothing, too, keeping on the underwear and bustier. The rest I drape over the footboard and the bedpost so it can air out overnight. After observing me closely, Vawn does the same.
There’s a new piece of furniture in the room—a small, rickety-looking table, upon which sits a tray bearing two covered plates and two steaming mugs of tea. Vawn grabs a plate and a mug for himself and sits right down on the floor in his silky black undershorts, practically inhaling the food.
I eat quickly too, out of habit. Mealtimes were kept brief at the Academy, to help us become accustomed to a guard’s tight schedule. The food is greasy and hearty, and after so many hours without a meal, it tastes divine.