Chapter 96 – Quinton #2
She curled against me like she belonged there, but I could feel the faint tension lingering in her muscles.
She’d survived so much, but her body still ached.
She needed rest. She needed care. So I eased out from under her, careful as I could, pausing when her brow furrowed in half-sleep.
I stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” I whispered.
She made a soft, sleepy sound, but didn’t stir.
I padded through her quiet house to the bathroom and turned on the tap, letting hot water fill the tub.
I added the oils and salts I’d seen her use—lavender and some earthy mineral Dain must’ve brought.
The steam curled up, carrying the clean, calming scent.
When the bath was full, I returned to her. She’d shifted onto her side, golden hair fanned across the pillow, still flushed from what we’d shared. I leaned over and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. “Sweetheart,” I murmured, “come with me.”
She blinked awake, slow and groggy, confusion softening as I kissed her temple again.
“I made you a bath.”
Something warmer filled her eyes. She nodded, wordless, letting me take her hand.
I didn’t crowd her in the bath. I kneeled beside the tub and cupped warm water in my hands, pouring it down her arms, over her shoulders.
She leaned back, eyes closed, and I watched something unknot inside her with every breath.
I started with her hands. I lifted one from the water, turned it over in mine. Her knuckles were still rough, still calloused from years of sword work. I ran the cloth across her palm, between her fingers, slow and thorough, then brought her wrist to my lips. She opened her eyes, watching me.
I moved to her arms. The cloth trailed warm water along the inside of her forearm, and my fingers followed, tracing the line of muscle, the raised edge of an old scar near her elbow. I pressed my mouth to it. She didn’t pull away.
Her shoulders came next. I worked the cloth across them in slow circles, feeling the knots beneath her skin begin to loosen. When the water sluiced down her back, she exhaled.
“How many people have you done this for?” she asked quietly.
I pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder. “Only one.”
She smiled faintly, as eyes drifted shut again.
I washed her hair next. Poured water over the crown of her head, worked the soap through the strands with my fingers, slow and careful, pressing my thumbs along her scalp until she let out a sound that was almost a purr.
I rinsed it clean, combed my fingers through the length of it, watching the gold darken in the water.
Then I moved to her back. The cloth found scars there too—a long, thin line between her shoulder blades, a cluster of smaller ones near her spine.
I kissed the longest one. Then the next.
She went quiet. Like she was letting me see something she’d kept hidden.
I didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just let my hands and my mouth do what words couldn’t.
Her ribs were still tender. I washed them with barely any pressure, my fingertips ghosting over the bruised skin.
I worked my way down over her stomach, her hips, and her thighs, caring for each with the same deliberate attention.
When the cloth passed over the scar on her hip, my thumb traced it gently beneath the water. She let out a quiet, grateful sigh.
When I’d rinsed the last trace of soap from her skin, I washed myself quickly—scrubbing away the remnants of worry and fear from days past. I dried off and kneeled beside the tub. She murmured my name, eyes still closed.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, lifting her carefully from the water, her arms winding around my shoulders.
I dried her with slow, tender strokes: down her spine, over her arms, her legs. I didn’t rush. When I kneeled to dry her feet, I pressed a kiss to her knee.
I wrapped her in the softest robe I could find, carried her back to the bedroom, and laid her gently on the bed. I tucked the blankets around her, letting my hand linger on her shoulder, smoothing the fabric down.
“Sleep,” I whispered close to her ear. “You’re safe.”
Her hand found mine under the covers.
I stayed beside her for a long while, watching her breathing even out, her lashes resting against her cheeks. She looked so young like this, stripped of everything but herself. Not the Captain, not the leader—just Azaria.
She almost wasn’t. The memory clawed its way up—her broken body in the forest, blood everywhere—until she shifted in her sleep and her breath ghosted over my knuckles. That was enough to break its hold.
“I don’t know how to hold this much of you and stay sane,” I whispered, not expecting an answer.
She stirred, hand moving beneath the blanket enough to brush my wrist. Even in sleep, she grounded me. My eyes burned. My body ached with relief and love.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but some part of me knew I could. That she would still be there when I woke.
So I leaned closer, laid my head beside hers on the pillow, and let go. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I didn’t dream of blood. I dreamed of her.
Morning light slipped slowly through the curtains—a soft sliver at first, then climbing across the floor, warm and golden. I stirred, blinking into the hush.
She was curled in front of me, her back pressed to my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist beneath the sheets. My heart beat in time with hers, skin to skin. She was so warm. So alive. I didn’t dare to speak. Instead, I pressed my lips to her bare shoulder. She exhaled deeper, settling into me.
“Mm…” Her voice was husky from sleep. “You’re still here.”
I smiled into her hair. “You sound surprised.”
She sighed, thumb stroking my hand gently. “I hoped you would be.”
I kissed the spot below her ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She let out the softest laugh. “Good. I’m not ready to get up yet.”
“Then we won’t,” I said, holding her tighter. “We’ll stay like this. As long as you want.”
And we did. I held her, thumb tracing lazy circles on her skin, my magic humming gently, content and curling around her shoulders. Her warmth soaked into me as we lay there in the quiet.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “We’ve come a long way since the day I found you in that forest.”
I huffed out a low sound, not quite a laugh, but close. Something warmer. My lips brushed the crown of her head.
“Yeah,” I murmured, voice warm against her hair. “You’re right, Sweetheart.”
Then, quieter still—for her, for this moment:
“You found me.”
And in the hush that followed, I let myself believe it.
She had found me. In every way that mattered.