She didn’t resist. That was worse.
When they reached the bath, he tried again, deliberately lighter, “You need to bathe, Isara.”
Silence. Stillness.
His irritation deepened.
Fine.Fine.
He smirked, though there was no real amusement behind it. “Unless you’d rather leave the blood on? Make a statement? Perhaps I should start dressing in red myself. We could match.”
Fuckingnothing. Of course.
He exhaled through his nose. “Right. Well. I’ll help you then.”
Without hesitation, he positioned himself behind her, drawing a dagger from his belt. The fabric of her ruined top was stiff with dried blood as he sliced through the back, peeling the tattered cloth away from her shoulders, sliding it down her arms.
His fingers skimmed her skin, the warmth beneath them stark against the cold air.
Focus.
He didn’t look at her, didn’tallowhimself to. He kept his eyes fixed on a point over her shoulder, his movements precise, methodical, clinical.
When her top was gone, he crouched, fingers finding the hem of her pants. He slid them down next, peeling the fabric away from her skin, careful,careful.
His hand brushed her thigh.
For just a moment, his pulseskittered.
He ignored it. Shoved the reaction deep into the dead, quiet part of himself that swallowed inconvenient things.
He guided her into the tub, the warm water lapping around her legs as he sat her down on the ledge inside. She was pliant beneath his hands, moving only when he moved her. Ashterion stepped back, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the strange, unwanted weight pressing against his ribs.
He let out a breath, forced his voice to return to its usual careless lilt. “Right, can you take it from here?”
He knew damn well he wasn’t getting an answer.
But gods, heneededone. Just to escape this room. Tobreathe.
He clenched his jaw, waiting.
And waiting.
When nothing came, when she remained a silent, still thing in the water?—
Ashterion dragged a hand down his face as though it might erase the situation. It didn’t.
Then he made a decision. A foolish one. Anunnecessaryone.
He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and stepped down into the tub, fully clothed. The water soaked through his tunic and pants instantly, heat seeping into his skin as he crouched beside her.
He grabbed a cloth, dipped it in the water, and started wiping the blood from the parts of her that weren’t submerged.
He worked in silence at first, methodical, efficient. But silence was dangerous. Silence let the mind wander, let the weight of things settle in too deep.
So, he spoke.
Not in his usual careless, taunting way. Not with words meant to provoke.
