The shirt slid to the floor. And gods help me, I was not prepared.
His body was a weapon, forged by war and discipline, honed to lethal perfection. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, built for speed and death. A fresh, deep, angry gash stretched across his chest. The edges were raw, the wound not yet closed.
My breath hitched. “Nothing?” My voice rose with disbelief. “This is nothing?”
“It is to me.” His lips barely moved around the words.
I bent closer, taking in the wound. It was bleeding, the skin around it red, irritated and clearly untreated.
“You didn’t even clean it properly.” Frustration curled in my chest.
“It’s already healing.”
“It’s actively bleeding.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “It will be fine.”
I crossed my arms and stared at him, unimpressed, as he bled stubbornness onto the floor. The amount of effort he put into pretending was honestly impressive. Stupid, but impressive.
I spotted a second door, slightly ajar, likely leading to the bathing chambers. Without a word, I moved toward it. The room inside was lit with golden faelights, the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air. Large basins lined one side, and along the wooden shelving, I found exactly what I was looking for.
Rags. A bucket. And on one of the higher shelves, a small collection of bottles. I reached up, scanning the labels. Herbs, oils, and what I could now recognise as soothing and healing tonics.
I grabbed what I needed, adding some soap to the bucket that I’d set to fill with warm water, then turned on my heel and headed back into the room. Varyth hadn’t moved, still seated near the fire, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite place.
“Stay still.” I set the bucket down beside him.
I dipped the rag into the water, wringing it out before pressing it firmly against the wound.
Varyth’s muscles tensed beneath my touch, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. I worked slowly, clearing the dried blood. Despite his casual indifference, there was tension in his body, coiled and waiting.
My free hand came to rest against his abdomen, instinctively pressing him back so he could lean into the chair. My fingers brushed over his bare skin, and a low sound escaped him. Not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. The noise was unintentional, guttural, and it sent heat curling in my stomach. I ignored it.
“Did that hurt?” I asked.
“No,” Varyth gritted out. “It did not hurt.”
My fingers twitched where they rested against him.
That sound.That sound.It was burned into my memory now, lodged deep in my ribs. I needed to move. I needed to speak, say anything. Instead, I sat there, holding him, his skin warm beneath my palm.
Focus.
The wound. That was what mattered.
I reached for one of the bottles I’d brought from the bathing chamber, uncorking it and pouring a small amount of the herbal mixture onto a clean cloth.
“This might sting,” I warned.
Varyth hissed as I pressed it into the wound, muscles tensing beneath my touch.
“Sorry,” I worked as quickly and gently as I could to clean the gash thoroughly.
“It’s fine,” he grunted, though his voice was tight with pain.
My free hand began tracing soothing circles against his abdomen. Light, absent movements meant to calm him, meant to distract.
Another sound slipped from him, though this time it was less identifiable. I didn’t say anything, pretending not to notice the heat that crept up my neck.
