“No.” His hands moved to cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “The weight of the dead is a heavy thing to carry.” His voice went rough, distant. “But working yourself to the point of joining them? That is not honor. That is not love. That is just… foolish.”
She stared at him, something in his tone making her pause.
“You sound like you know.”
His hands dropped from her face. He reached for the washcloth, covering it in soap with movements that were suddenly too controlled. Too deliberate.
“I…” He paused. Took a breath. “I lost my parents too.”
Delaney’s breath caught.
“I was young, only about 14 cycles old.” His voice had gone flat. Emotionless in a way that screamed pain. “It was—” He stopped himself. Shook his head slightly.
He trailed off. Started washing her shoulders with careful, gentle strokes.
“Maelic—”
“I just know what it is to carry the type of weight you have in your heart.” His hands stilled on her shoulders. “But if you let it drag on you, consume you… it will do nothing but choke you.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with shared grief.
“What can I do?” she asked softly. “Are you saying I should just move on and what? Leave this place and pretend it didn’t exist, that I’m not being crushed by the weight of this all?”
“No.” The word was barely audible. “It just… The weight doesn’t get lighter. You just learn to carry it.” He resumed washing her,the cloth gliding across her collarbone. “But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore,astara. I’m here.”
Something broke open in her chest at those words.
I’m here.
Not let me fix this. Not you should do this differently. Just… I’m here.
The washcloth grazed her breasts, and despite everything, her breath caught.
Maelic stilled instantly.
“Tell me if my pheromones are too much.” His voice had gone rough. Strained. “I swore I would never take what you do not want. Shall I stop?”
She should say yes. Should tell him to keep it platonic, that she couldn’t handle anything more right now.
But that’s not what came out.
“No.” It came out shaky but certain. “Don’t stop. I want—” She swallowed. “I want you to keep going.”
A rumble rolled through his chest. Deep and approving and hungry.
The cloth drifted lower, tracing the curve of her ribs, the soft plane of her stomach. Then it slipped beneath the water entirely and was gone, forgotten, replaced by his bare fingers.
Oh god.
They slid between her thighs, finding her already slick, and she gasped.
“May I?” he rasped against her ear, lips brushing the shell. “Let me take care of you, myastara. Please.”
That word—please—like he needed this as much as she did.
She nodded, unable to speak.
His mouth found her throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over her pulse. The faint scrape of fangs, the soothing drag of his tongue. His fingers circled her clit with agonizing slowness, building heat low in her belly that had nothing to do with the bathwater.
