Chapter 40 Jules
Jules
The ache has settled deep in my belly. A low, dull, grinding pain that sits heavy in my lower abdomen like a stone I can’t shift no matter how I move.
I know this feeling too well—it means this is going to be a bad one. It’s going to be the kind of night where I’d normally be curled up on my couch with a heating pad, counting down the minutes until the ibuprofen kicked in.
Except here, there’s no couch, no heating pad, and no ibuprofen.
Perfect, I think bitterly. Of course this would happen now.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hugging my middle, trying not to let it show. I don’t bleed much when I’m on my period—never have—but the cramps? The cramps are brutal—especially the first night. The kind that make you feel hollowed out and fragile and just… sad.
And that’s the worst part.
Being on my period doesn’t make me irrational or angry like some men like to joke. It makes me quiet. It makes everything feel heavier and harder and more hopeless than it probably is.
Right now, all I can think is that I’m trapped.
The Shadow Realm…the Crimson Spires…Lucian. They all feel like insurmountable obstacles standing between me and going home. Not to mention poor Hanna who’s caught up in all of this because of me. I feel so guilty when I remember the fear in her eyes.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to get us home.
Mr. Mittens is here at least. That helps—sort of.
I glance toward the fire, where he’s curled into a smug, fluffy loaf on the rug, tail flicking lazily as he basks in the warmth. He cracks one eye open when he notices me looking, then closes it again.
“Traitor,” I mutter. He ought to be on my lap comforting me—but the fire is so warm and cozy he just can’t resist it. Well, I wouldn’t want him “making biscuits” as he likes to do on my stomach right now anyway. My whole abdomen feels way too painful to be able to stand any kneading right now.
I shift again, wincing as another wave of pain rolls through me, and that’s when it seems that Lucian notices.
His dark eyes fixed on me with an unnerving intensity that makes it feel like nothing about me ever goes unnoticed.
“Let me care for you,” he says again. “You are in pain—I can feel it.”
“I’m just tired,” I say quickly. “It’s been a long couple of days.” Which is pretty much the understatement of the century. “I’ll probably just go right to bed,” I add.
He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head once.
“No. First you need a warm bath to help ease the pain of your flow.”
I stiffen.
“My what? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says gently, as if explaining something obvious, “That your monthly time of blood is upon you. Your body is tightening instead of releasing. Heat will help.”
My stomach clenches—not from cramps this time, but embarrassment.
“What do you mean you know?” I demand. “How could you possibly—”
“I can smell the blood,” he says simply. “And I learned much about humans when I was younger.”
“But it doesn’t…doesn’t bother you?” I ask uncertainly.
He tilts his head.
“Why would it?”
“A lot of men,” I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice, “Freak out when they find out a woman’s on her period. Or they act like she’s contagious. Or unstable.”
I hate when men get that stupid, knowing look on their face when you’re upset about something and say, “Oh, are you on your period?” For me, it’s an immediate red flag.
But I’ve never been with a man who seems completely unbothered by my time of the month.
Or even willing to help with it, as Lucian seems willing to do.
He frowns at my defensiveness.
“It’s just blood, my darling. I am intimately familiar with it—I do not fear it.” His gaze softens. “I only wish to ease your pain.”
Something in my chest tightens at that. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man who looks at me the way Lucian does—like I’m precious and beautiful and worthy of being cherished.
Before I can protest further, he takes my hand and leads me into the bathing chamber. Steam curls in the air as he fills the tub with warm water and fragrant bubbles. Candlelight reflects off dark stone and polished metal, turning the room into something out of a dream.
He helps me undress and then takes off his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal strong, muscular forearms—the same deliberate gesture he made the first night. The sight alone sends a deep, tingling warmth through me. I have to admit, he’s extremely easy on the eyes.
But it seems that he thinks the same about me.
“You are exquisite,” he murmurs as he guides me into the water, his hands large and sure on my waist. “Just relax, my darling.”
The heat is immediately soothing—a balm that makes me sigh as I sink down.
“Mmm, this feels amazing,” I nearly moan. Then I look and see Lucian staring at me. “What is it?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all—I was just thinking how beautiful you are. I love how wide your hips are. How generous your body is.”
His voice is a low, intimate rumble that vibrates through the steam-filled air. His hands skim my shoulders, my arms, the dip of my spine, leaving trails of fire on my wet skin.
“Every curve is gorgeous…every soft inch of you was made for my hands.”
“Oh, well…thank you.” I can feel my cheeks getting hot and it has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.
I settled back against the tub with a shaky breath, the steaming water seeping deep into my clenched muscles, loosening something tight and painful inside my belly.
The floral scent of the bubbling oils Lucian poured into the bath rises around us, but it’s his presence—his focused attention—that truly envelops me.
“This is…actually helping,” I admit, the words barely a whisper.
“Good,” he says softly, but there’s a dark, possessive pleasure in the word I’ve never heard in a man’s voice before. He isn’t just pleased I’m comfortable—he’s pleased he is the one providing the comfort. “Because now it’s time to wash you,” he adds.
I think about protesting, but after the way he touched me last night, there doesn’t seem to be much point.
“All right,” I say softly, looking up at him. “Go ahead…I trust you.”
“Thank you, little one—that means a lot to me,” he rumbles.
He doesn’t use a cloth. He uses his bare, soapy hands. The bar of soap, something rich and lilac-scented, glides over my skin, but it’s his touch that makes me weak.
He starts at my neck, massaging the tension from my shoulders with strong, kneading thumbs. He works down my arms, lifting each one to trace the sensitive inner skin from wrist to elbow, making me shiver. When his soap-slick hands slide around to my chest, my breath catches in my throat.
He cups my breasts, his palms encompassing their full, heavy weight, weighing them, almost worshipping them.
“So perfect,” he growls, his thumbs sweeping over my nipples, which harden instantly into tight, aching peaks against the slick friction.
He circles them, teasing them…pinching them gently between thumb and forefinger and sending sparks of pleasure straight to the place between my legs which is momentarily eclipsing the dull throb of my cramps.
“Oh, Lucian…” I arch my back and moan breathlessly.
“Look at you—so responsive for me,” he growls softly in my ear. “Even when you ache, your gorgeous, curvy body knows what it needs. You need pleasure, sweetheart—it’s the only way to ease your pain.”
I bite my lip, my cheeks getting hot. I’ve never known a man who loved curvy women like this—not with tolerance, but with a voracious, detailed obsession. He speaks about my flesh like it’s a masterpiece, and under his hands, I almost start to believe it.
His hands drift lower, over the swell of my stomach. He doesn’t shy away from it; he spreads his fingers wide, as if claiming every inch.
“This softness,” he murmurs, leaning close, his lips brushing my ear. “It’s where your power lives, my lovely one. It’s life…it’s warmth…it’s utterly intoxicating.”
Then his hands glide lower still, over the flare of my hips, tracing the indent of my waist before sliding to the tops of my thighs. The water sloshes gently.
“Part for me, Julia,” he murmurs.
A wave of embarrassment hotter than the bathwater washes over me.
“Lucian, I can wash there myself,” I protest.
“I know you can,” he murmurs, his tone leaving no room for argument. It’s firm, yet infinitely gentle. “But you won’t. I need to care for all of you—especially now. The warmth helps, but true ease comes from pleasure. Let me give it to you, my darling. Now, open.”
His command, wrapped in that velvet promise, unravels my resistance. With a shaky exhale, I let my knees fall apart beneath the water.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and his words send a shiver of pure need through me.
It’s always been a mystery to me how I can feel utterly miserable during my period…and yet be horny at the same time. It’s like my body doesn’t know what it wants during this time.
But Lucian seems to know.
His soapy hand finds the junction of my thighs but he doesn’t dive right in…
doesn’t rush. He washes me with the same gentle thoroughness he used everywhere else.
His fingers stroke through my curls, making me shiver and he cleanses the outer folds with slow, deliberate strokes, his touch firm enough to be cleansing, but soft enough to be a caress.
I am trembling, my head tipped back against the cool marble rim of the tub, my eyes closed.
The cramping ache is still there—a distant echo—but it’s being steadily overwhelmed by a different, building heat.
“So beautiful here,” he whispers, his voice thick. One finger slips between my lips, gliding through my natural wetness, which is already gathering despite my physical discomfort. “So soft and hot. Even now, your sweet little pussy prepares itself for me. It knows what it needs.”
He circles my entrance, applying a gentle, maddening pressure that makes my hips lift slightly off the tub floor.
“Do you feel that?” he asks. “The ache beginning to change? To become something else?”
“Yes,” I gasp. Because I do. The pain is blurring, transforming into a deep, throbbing need.
He continues his ministrations, washing me with an intimacy that leaves me breathless.
His fingers explore, learning every crevice, every sensitive spot, but he doesn’t push inside or bring me to the edge.
This is a promise of things to come. He’s stoking the fire, proving his point, but waiting for later to make me come.
The edging is a kind of exquisite torture.
Finally, when I am clean and quivering and utterly pliant in his hands, Lucian helps me to stand and rinses me with clear, warm water poured from a crystal pitcher. The water cascades over my breasts, my stomach, between my legs, washing away the suds but not the memory of his touch.
He helps me out of the tub, his strength making me feel weightless. He wraps me in a towel so large and fluffy it swallows me whole, and he dries me with the same slow, worshipful attention.
He pats every drop from my skin, kneeling to dry my legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of each knee. He rubs the towel over my back…my buttocks…my thighs, and then stands to gently blot the moisture from my breasts, his thumbs lingering on my nipples once more.
Then he dresses me in a nightgown of ivory silk so fine it feels like a caress against my sensitized skin. It slips over my head and floats down my body, clinging to my damp curves. He smooths it over my hips, his hands lingering.
“Pleasure will ease the ache, my darling,” he says again, his eyes holding a dark promise as he strokes my hair out of my eyes. “And soon, I will give you so much of it, you’ll forget you ever knew pain at all.”
“You…you don’t have to do that,” I say breathlessly.
“Ah, but I want to. How do you feel?” he asks.
“Better,” I say honestly. “Still crampy, though. You don’t…” I hesitate. “You don’t have any period products here, do you? Pads? Tampons?”
“I’m afraid not,” he admits. “But none of that will be necessary.”
I frown.
“Well then, you’re going to want to put a towel down. I don’t want to uh, mess up your bed.”
“You won’t,” he promises
He leads me back to the bedroom and helps me into bed.
I clamp my thighs together instinctively.
“Lucian, really—if I could just have a towel—”
“Shhh.” He tucks me between the sheets. “I told you—I’m going to take care of you.”
But now that I’m out of the warm water, the pain is returning. Another cramp hits, sharp enough to steal my breath. I gasp, curling inward, and suddenly his hand is there—warm, steady—resting over my lower belly.
“My poor little one,” he murmurs. “Let me ease your pain.”
“How?” I gasp. “Unless you’ve got industrial-strength ibuprofen, nothing—ah—nothing is going to help.”
“I have no medicine,” he says softly. “But I do know another way.”
Another wave hits and I groan, tears pricking my eyes.
“Anything. Do anything. I don’t care—as long as it helps.”
His gaze darkens—not with hunger, but with focus and something that looks like devotion.
“Very well,” he murmurs. “Just relax my darling and let me ease you.”
And for the first time all night, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to endure this alone.