“I’m not stripping you.”
He snorts, the sound more vibration than sound. “I would not expect you to. My good fortune doesn’t extend that far.”
Good fortune? Now I know he has a concussion.
“You’re right.” I sniff. “Your good fortune doesn’t even extend as far as your fingernails. Wash, then I’ll help you into bed.” Because forwhatever reason, the thought of Boreas dragging himself into bed unaided saddens me.
While he scrubs the blood and grime from his skin, I stoke the fire until it roars. Heat warms my stiff, aching joints as I take a seat in one of the armchairs, hands clasped, legs jittering.
On the other side of the wall, water splashes, followed by a thump and a curse.
“Are you all right?” I’m up, crossing the room. “Boreas?” I press a hand to the door.
His sigh reaches me. It’s all the answer I need.
In hindsight, I should have braced myself for the sight that awaited me on the other side of the door, because imagining Boreas mid-wash is vastly different from witnessing it. His frame is so broad it dwarfs the sizeable tub. Milky, rose-scented water veils what lies below his waist. A quick perusal reveals he’s unhurt, just thoroughly frustrated.
He mumbles, “I can’t reach my back.”
Yes, that would be a problem.
A cool breeze brushes my cheek tentatively, and I say, without being fully aware of it, “I can help, if you want.”
He does not appear thrilled by this. Meanwhile, I struggle to keep my eyes above his chest.
When he fails to respond, I sigh. “Fine. Flop around like a fish for all I care.”
“Wait.”
Mouth pursed, I slowly turn to face him. With obvious reluctance, Boreas offers me a bar of soap. He appears so miserable I have to fight a smile. Indeed, he does not want my help, but he is asking for it regardless.
Pulling over a stool from the corner, I position myself behind him and lather up the soap. At the moment, he leans against the back of the tub so only his shoulders and neck are visible. Wide,very wideshoulders streaked with remnants of battle.
Upon the first touch, the king tenses. Sweat and grime slough from his corded form, darkening the water further. I imagine it is an oldcrone I bathe. Someone whose presence does not change the rhythm of my heart. But I quickly learn how pointless those visualizations are. The give of his skin beneath my questing fingers, the slide of the soapy water, feels highly sensual.
A light splash sounds as I pull back. “Lean forward, please.”
Boreas is as rigid as hardened bricks. I fight the urge to glance at his expression out of fear of what I’ll find. Distaste? Surely my touch doesn’t repulse him. He kissed me with the hunger of a man starved.
Prying his fingers from the lip of the tub, he leans forward, baring the arch of his spine to me—and every scar marring his back.
I go still. I’ve seen the scarring before, but never up close. His skin doesn’t even bear resemblance to skin. More like heaping eruptions, as if the scars had healed, only to be broken open again. I can only imagine the extent of his suffering.
With the gentlest touch, I smooth my soapy hands over the scarred, uneven expanse. His breath hitches, then shudders out. His head bows forward in a sign of trust that tightens my throat.
“It was my idea to join the resistance that overthrew the old gods,” he slurs. “I was convinced this new life, under new rule, would allow us greater freedom and influence.” He swallows, then goes on. “I was wrong. The new gods wanted to make an example of us, to show what happened to those who conspired against them. My brothers and I were sentenced to be flogged.”
I wince, but manage to hold my tongue, allowing him space to finish the story.
“I asked to receive the lashes meant for them. The Council of Gods agreed to my compounded punishment, and slowed my body’s natural healing abilities so my skin would scar and I would always remember my failure.”
I process the information, slotting it into the blank spaces between what I know of the king and what I thought I knew of him. “Does it hurt?” I ask, cupping water in my hands to cleanse the suds, which sluice down the divots straddling his spine.
“The scarring tugs occasionally, and my back aches if I do not stretch before intense exercise.” The last word is barely audible. He’s falling asleep in the bath.
“Boreas.” I shake his shoulder. “Let me help you into bed, then you can rest properly. You’re dead on your feet.”
“I cannot rest.” He straightens, turning his head to look at me. “There is too much to do, too many wounded, too many deaths.” He adds, “I will need to fortify the barrier surrounding the citadel, but that will have to wait until my power is restored.” He struggles to stand, but he’s so drained he only succeeds in slopping water over the tub’s edge.
