Tension
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ifloated on a warm cloud, my arms weightless beside me.
Flashes of memories came in and out. Being carried, the tug of my dress, then nothing.
My eyes popped open, and I sat up so quickly that the chamber swam. Lord Draven had forced me to my knees . . . My jaw ached from his aggressive advances.
Dragging in harsh breaths, I took in my surroundings. I was in a tub, bare beneath water clear enough to hide nothing. I screamed and crossed my arms over my breasts.
Lord Draven watched me, water drenching the front of his tunic to his sleeves. He stood multiple paces away, well within view of my body.
“I have already seen all of you, mortal,” he murmured, tone dry.
Tell that to my thundering pulse!
But he was not wrong. Still, I could not, in good conscience, sprawl as if I were comfortable.
“I have almost finished bathing you.” All it took was one stride and he was beside the tub, crouched. “Be still.” His broad hand cupped my head, then I was submerged.
I clamped my lips together too late. Thrashing underwater, I struggled to breathe. He did something akin to rubbing against my head.
I screamed and water flooded my mouth. His grip loosened. I surged up, gasping and gagging as I scrubbed my palm over my face.
“Why would you do that?!” I wheezed.
“You still have lather in your hair.”
I reached up; my fingers grazed the slick texture on my head.
He had bathed me?
“You have a bit more here,” he said in an analytical tone, pointing at the crown of his head. He then reached forward, big, intimidating hand looming.
“I shall wash it!” I cupped my hands and dipped them into the water. Lowering my head, I lifted and allowed water to trickle through my fingers. I rubbed downward as I went until I no longer felt the slimy consistency that accompanied applying too much soap.
As odd as it was to wake in this manner, the warm water felt good lapping against my skin.
He stood in a smooth motion and reached for something behind me. A moment later, a towel hit me across the face.
“Now get dressed. We are going to translate until you start bleeding again,” he ordered, and left the bathing chamber as if I were chasing him. His strides were a little wider and faster.
He had satisfied his part of my request to see Piper. Now he was collecting.
I stood, water sluicing down my body, cool air raising goose flesh. I dried myself quickly, then scrunched the fabric into my hair until it no longer dripped.
The longer I stood with my legs in the warm water, the harder it became not to melt back into it. Once done with my hair, I tossed the cloth onto the ground so I could step onto it.
I struggled to hoist myself out of the tub, so I had to toss my leg over whilst gripping the lip. Doing this nude felt like an indignity. I landed on my feet, and they slid out from under me. If I had not been holding onto the edge of the tub, I would have broken my skull.
A sigh came, and a grip hoisted me upright.
“You damned mortal,” he huffed and slapped my dress against my chest. I hugged it to offer myself a semblance of privacy. “You are a menace to yourself.”
I looked up at him, eyes wide.
He shook his head and turned, leaving me alone again. I did not let myself dwell any longer and dragged the dress on.
I strained with the corset at my back, managing to only tighten part of it. The top gaped, allowing a draft to chill my skin. I stepped into my haphazardly tossed slippers and shuffled out of the bathing chamber.
“Lord Draven,” I called out, hesitant. “I am ready.”
He leaned against the wall beside the door. “Let us get to work.”
His pace remained steady as I followed him out.
“Stop reading,” he commanded.
I wrenched my focus away from the script on the paper to him on his seat. Shifting my weight to the side allowed my leg a bit of a rest from being curled up on the ground. The Creation Scripture sat before me, slightly propped by a few slim novels I had plucked from the shelf behind me.
Craning my head to look at him on his leather-bound seat pinched the back of my neck.
“Why?” I could not help the frustration underlying my snapped word.
“You begin to close your eyes that way before you start bleeding.”
He still had not looked up from the oversized journal braced on one arm. His quill’s tip scratched across parchment as I worked on my translations. Upon lifting my head, a pulsation started up at my temple. I winced, rubbing the middle of my forehead. The only spot that offered a modicum of relief.
“Thank you,” I breathed, grateful. When it reached the point of a nosebleed, the headache was too far gone for it to stop. Only sleeping helped soothe the ache.
“I am centuries old, mortal. My lack of care for human life does not equate to stupidity. For now, I need you.” He smiled, displaying his sharp, intimidating fangs.
Those words in his voice caused a foreign sensation to bloom in my belly.
“Right,” I mumbled, my cheeks flushing. “Simply a lack of compassion.”
He stilled, making me hold my breath.
I felt so incredibly attuned to him. Analyzing his reactions was part of my survival.
His lips twitched again. I let out a breath and quickly straightened, tugging the front of my corset up to cover my bosom. The haphazardly tied sashes had loosened at my back so I couldn’t cease wiggling.
“Stand.” He sighed, finished whatever he scrawled across the journal, and set the quill inside before slamming it closed.
The order had me on my feet.
I peeked up at the slim glass pane that allowed some light from the crescent moon in. Usually, we did not stop until it was on its travel down.
Leather creaked as he swiveled. His oversized hand spanned my waist, tugging me toward him. His command swallowed my breath, “Stop moving around.” He tugged on the sash at my back. He tightened it with careful yanks, each one cinching the ribbing.
The stern yet gentle tugs of the sashes caused that tentative warmth blooming in my belly to throb.
It was a rather gentle, intimate thing and I did not know what to do with that.
A knot of discomfort swelled in my throat.
“My lord, may I ask a question?”
“Another?” he drawled, tightening the next bit. “Ask your undoubtedly insightful question.”
His breath caressed my ear, making my loose hair tickle across my Sigil.
“What is Volcan?”
The tied sash loosened. I anticipated fury or anger like the first time I had spoken this question. Instead, he re-tightened the last sash until it was properly secured and my breasts no longer threatened to spill.
“Not what—who,” he corrected, voice stiff.
A who.
I eased back to the ground, no longer hindered by the corset. Leather creaked as he leaned back.
“Is he a Warlord?” The given names of Warlords were not widely known—I had no way to place him.
“Not any longer.” His response came tighter, and asking another was pushing his patience, but I had to know. The way Lord Draven’s expression stiffened was almost as if . . . pained?
“What happened to him?”
“Filthy redbloods happened to him.” He abruptly stood. “Keep reading until I return,” he said in that silky tone that marked irritation.
“Yes, my lord,” I muttered and bent over the scripture. I could barely believe it. He was leaving me here? Alone?
Let me think.
I had reached the section pertaining to redbloods. The section described the creation of redbloods, created before bluebloods, a trial humanity, in some sense. As riveting as the reading was, the air seemed to leave the room with his absence.
I hissed a breath out through my clenched teeth.
Just one more moment . . .
I peeked over the lip of the desk. He’s truly gone!
No, I must think. I carefully set my quill down. I had found nothing of note on his shelves, but the focus he applied to whatever he toiled over seemed important.
Any knowledge was good knowledge. The journal he had been scrawling in sat slightly parted by a quill holding it open. With one peek at the door, I reached for the page and slowly lifted it.
A drawing? I pulled away.
I must be mistaken. Exhaling shakily, I looked at the page again.
As I had thought.
I stared at an image . . . of me. Thin, perfect lines created a realistic portrait. My brows furrowed in concentration as I stared down at something unseen off the page; instead of a quill in my hand, the stem led to a fleurlet.
The detail was stunning.
This was not the skill of some soulless monster. The heart in each curve was breathtaking.
Footsteps approached, and I pulled back, plucking up the quill and beginning to scribble the next phrase I had garnered from the scripture, my mind refusing to calm.