Chapter 81
LXXXI.
DANTE
The bathing chamber was exactly as he'd left it hours ago.
The sunken tub is already filled with steaming water. Servants had prepared it this morning on his orders, just like every morning for the past two days—hoping she'd wake, hoping he'd need it.
The hope had felt like madness at the time—like counting her breaths, like refusing to leave her side.
Now she was here in his arms, solid and real, and the madness had paid off.
He crossed to the tub and set her down on the tiled edge. She steadied herself with one hand on his shoulder, the other gripping his forearm. Even that contact sent warmth through him—proof she was here, alive, touching him.
"You had this ready."
"I hoped." He tested the temperature, giving his hands something to do. "Every morning. Just in case."
Her expression softened. "Dante."
His name in her voice. Tender. Aching. His throat tightened and he looked away. Two days of holding it together and now that she was awake, his control was fracturing. "Can you undress yourself or do you need help?"
She tested her arms. Lifted them slightly. The trembling was obvious. "I think I need help."
He nodded. Knelt in front of her, bringing them eye to eye. "Tell me if anything hurts."
His hands found the hem of the sleeping gown—cotton, the one he’d dressed her in two days ago—when her own clothes had been ruined with blood. His fingers brushed her thighs as he gathered the fabric.
She sucked in a breath.
He froze. His gaze flicked up to hers.
Her pupils were dilated. Her pulse visible at her throat, beating faster than it should for someone just sitting still.
She felt it too. This awareness. This hunger to touch and be touched after coming so close to never touching again.
He forced himself to focus. Lifted the fabric slowly, watching her face for any sign of pain.
The gown slid up her legs, her hips, her stomach.
Her skin was warm beneath his fingers where they accidentally brushed.
She raised her arms as much as she could.
He pulled the fabric over her head and set it aside.
She sat naked in front of him.
His jaw clenched. His shadows stirred restlessly around his shoulders.
Her skin was pale in the lamplight. Marked with fading bruises around her ribs where Caelum's magic had struck, purple and yellow evidence of how close he'd come to losing her. The bruises were healing but still visible.
Still there. Still proof she'd died in his arms.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I'm alright. It looks worse than it feels."
He didn't trust himself to speak, just offered his hand to help her into the water.
She took it. Used his stability to slide into the tub.
The sound she made when the heat surrounded her, a low moan of pure relief, hit him somewhere below his ribs. His stomach tightened. His breath caught. Her eyes closed, head tilting back as she sank down until water reached her shoulders.
"This feels amazing."
He started to stand. Started to give her privacy.
Her hand shot out and caught his wrist. "Where are you going?"
"To give you space—"
"Don't." She opened her eyes and looked up at him, something raw in her expression. "Stay. Please."
The please broke something in him.
He nodded, started unfastening his shirt because he'd been wearing the same clothes for two days and they deserved to be burned. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, exhaustion and lingering weakness making simple tasks harder than they should be.
She watched him struggle. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter.
"You're not. You gave too much. Pushed too far. You're barely standing."
He took off his shirt, let it fall. The cool air hit his bare chest, raising goosebumps. Or maybe that was her gaze tracking over him. "I'll recover."
"How long?"
"A few more days. Maybe a week." He stripped completely, too tired to care about modesty. Too aware that modesty between them had died somewhere around the time he'd poured part of his soul into hers. "My power is returning—just slowly."
He stepped into the tub on the opposite side. The hot water felt incredible against muscles that had been locked in one position for forty-eight hours. He sank down with a sound he couldn't suppress.
When he opened his eyes, she was watching him.
Even weakened, his shadows curled.
"You look exhausted."
"I am." No point denying what she could feel through the bond anyway.
She shifted slightly. Winced.
"Sore?"
"Everywhere." She tried to smile. Failed. "Apparently, almost dying means every muscle hurts."
"Let me help." He moved through the water toward her. "I can wash your hair. The rest." He paused. "If you want."
"Please."
He positioned himself behind her. Close enough to reach but not quite touching. The water rippled between them.
"Lean back."
She did. Trusted him completely as she let her head fall back, let him support her weight with one hand while the other wet her hair. His fingers moved through the strands, dark silk beneath the water, heavy against his palms, spreading around her.
Beautiful. She was so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.
He reached for the soap. The scent filled the space between them—jasmine and night-blooming flowers, something he'd had made specifically for her weeks ago—before the battle, before everything changed.
Back when he'd pretended this was just a political alliance.
The lies he'd told himself seemed laughable now.
He lathered his hands and brought them to her scalp.
Began working the soap through her hair with gentle pressure.
Starting at the crown, massaging slowly, his fingertips tracing circles against the delicate skin, working down to where her hair met her neck, the soft give of her scalp beneath his touch.
She made a sound. Soft. Almost a moan.
Her shoulders dropped, relaxing under his touch. Her head tilted slightly, giving him better access.
His hands stilled for half a second.
The heat of her body so close. The way she melted under his touch. The smell of her skin mixing with jasmine. The want rising in him when exhaustion should have made it impossible.
Control. He forced his hands to continue their work—fingers moving through her hair, making sure every strand was clean.
He rinsed her hair, cupping water in his hands and pouring it over her head. Making sure no soap got in her eyes. Taking longer than necessary because stopping meant acknowledging what came next.
Then he reached for the washing cloth.
Paused with it in his hand.
His gaze traveled down. The curve of her neck. Her shoulders. The line of her spine disappearing beneath the water. Lower to where the bruises marked her ribs. Evidence of her death. Her resurrection. His claim on her that went soul-deep.
He let out a breath and lathered the cloth.
"Arms first." His voice came out rougher than intended.
She lifted one arm without hesitation.
He started at her shoulder, the cloth moving slowly down. Over the curve of her elbow, along her forearm, where he could see her pulse beating. Her wrist, where her skin was so soft.
She leaned into his touch. Just slightly. Just enough that he knew she felt it too.
Down her back, the cloth trailed along her spine. Her skin was fever-warm beneath the water. His shadows stirred, wanting to wrap around the fading bruises.
Mine, they whispered. Ours. Almost lost her.
Across her sides, avoiding the bruises.
His grip on the cloth tightened. His other hand had somehow landed on her hip, steadying her. Or steadying himself. Skin to skin beneath the water.
Stop. He pulled back. Handed her the cloth. "You can do the rest."
She took it. Her fingers brushed his, lingering just a moment too long to be an accident. The tension thickened as she finished washing the places he'd avoided, places he wanted to touch. Not yet. Not when they were both barely holding together.
When she was done, she set the cloth aside and settled back against the tub with an exhale. Her eyes closed. Water lapping at her collarbones.
He moved back to his side of the tub and began washing himself quickly.
When he looked up, her eyes were dark. Lips parted slightly. Heat in her expression.
"What?"
"Come here."
"Brynn—"
"Please."
He moved through the water toward her. She met him halfway, and suddenly they were inches apart, close enough that he could see silver threading through her irises—his mark, his essence, proof of what he'd done. What they'd become.
Her hands found his chest, fingers splayed against his skin, right over his heart, where she could probably feel it racing.
"I felt you fading."
His lungs seized. Every muscle locked.
"At the end. Through the bond. When you were saving me, you were pouring everything into me, and I felt you slipping away.
Your presence getting weaker and weaker.
" Her fingers pressed harder against his chest. "And I couldn't do anything.
Couldn't help you. Couldn't stop it. I just had to feel you dying while I lay there unable to move—"
Her voice broke.
His hands came to her face, cupped her cheeks, tilted her head up so she had to look at him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you felt that—"
"Don't apologize." Her eyes were bright with tears. "You saved me. I just… I needed you to know. That it wasn't just you watching me die. That I felt you dying too, and it was—" She stopped. Swallowed hard. "It was the worst thing I've ever felt."
His throat closed. He pulled her against his chest, held her tight enough that she had to feel his heartbeat. "I'm here. I'm alright."
"Promise me something." Her arms wrapped around him, clinging.
"Anything."
"Promise me you won't sacrifice yourself for me again. That if it comes down to a choice, you'll choose yourself."
His jaw clenched. The words she was asking for stuck in his throat. "I can't promise that."
She pulled back enough to look at him. "Dante—"
"Would you make that promise to me?" He held her gaze, let her see the truth he couldn't hide. "If our positions were reversed? If I was dying? Would you choose yourself over me?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Because they both knew the answer. Had known it since the moment she'd reached back for him while scattering. Since the moment he'd poured his soul into her dying body.
"Exactly." His voice came out quiet. "So don't ask me to promise something you couldn't promise either."
"I hate that you're right." She pressed her forehead against his chest, right over his heart. "I don't want to lose you."
"You won't." His arms tightened around her. One hand sliding up her back, the other cupping the back of her head. Holding her like she was precious. Like she was everything. "We're bound now. Where you go, I go. Even death can't separate us anymore."
They stayed like that, just holding each other in the warm water while steam rose around them. His chin rested on top of her head. Her heartbeat steady against his chest. Their breathing falling into sync.
This. This was what he'd been terrified of losing. Not just her life. But these moments. This connection. The way she fit against him like she'd been made for his arms.
Finally, she tilted her head back. Looked up at him with eyes that had gone dark.
"Kiss me."
His hands tightened on her reflexively. "You should rest—"
"I want you." Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers curling into his hair. "I want to feel you. Want to prove you're really here and I'm really here and we're both alive." Her voice dropped lower. "Please."
His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone, feeling the warmth of her skin. Her pulse fluttered beneath his palm, where it curved around her jaw.
Alive. She was alive.
He closed the distance and kissed her.