His eyes fixed on her ribs where deep scratches ran in parallel lines. His hand moved before she could react, fingers ghosting over marks he hadn't made. The temperature in the room dropped further.
"What did this?" The question came out flat, controlled, but underneath she heard something else.
"The river—"
"Don't lie." His fingers traced the claw marks with unexpected gentleness. "These aren't from water or even rocks."
She shivered at his touch, at the strange carefulness of it after his bruising hold. "There were things in the river. When I fell."
"Things." He moved behind her, and she heard his sharp intake of breath. More marks decorated her back—long scratches from being dragged through water. His fingers found the bruises on her ankles, dark and hand-shaped. "Gryndelok."
The word came out as a hiss. His hands tightened on her shoulders, not painfully, but she felt the tremor of rage run through him.
"They touched you." Not a question. "Tried to take you."
"Sian fought them off."
"They marked you." His finger traced a particularly deep scratch near her spine. "Hurt what's mine."
For a moment, his touch turned almost tender, following each wound with something that might have been concern. The warmth in her chest pulsed in response, reaching toward this unexpected gentleness.
Then he seemed to catch himself. His hands fell away, and when he spoke again, his voice had returned to its earlier coldness.
"Careless of you to nearly die before I could properly punish you." But the words lacked their earlier venom. "Get in the bath. That water will heal what the Gryndelok dared to damage."
He walked to the bathing chamber, and she followed on unsteady legs. Steam rose from the too-aware water, scented with pine and something medicinal now.
"You're going to wash every trace of him away," he said without turning. "Every touch. Every kindness. Every moment you spent pretending you were free."
She stood at the bath's edge, watching the surface ripple with awareness.
"And when you're done, you'll put on what I've left for you." He gestured toward his bed where red silk waited. His color. His claim. "Nothing else. Nothing that carries even a memory of starlight."
"What if I refuse?"
He smiled. "You won't. That warmth in your chest won't let you. It wants to be exactly where you are - with me, under my hands, learning what it means to be truly claimed."
The water examined her with the patience of a predator.
Steam rose from the bath's surface, carrying scents of pine and bitter herbs and something older, magic that had soaked into these stones for centuries. The bathroomitself was carved from the living rock of the castle, lit by phosphorescent moss that made the water look black as ink, broken only by the occasional ripple of silver.
Briar stood at the edge, acutely aware of every mark Eliam had left. The bite at her throat throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Bruises bloomed across her arms like dark flowers. Her palm still wept blood where he'd erased Arion's kiss with teeth.
But worse than the physical marks was that warmth in her chest. It was quiet now, patient, waiting to see what would happen next.
"The water won't bite." Eliam's voice came from behind her. "That's my prerogative."
She hadn't heard him return. He moved through his own domain like shadow, present and absent by will alone. Now he stood just behind her, close enough that she felt the cold radiating from him but not touching. Making her wait. Making her wonder. When she glanced back, she saw he'd removed his shirt, the lean muscle of his chest marked with faint scars she hadn't expected. Old ones, silver against his skin.
The warmth in her own chest pulsed suddenly, reaching toward him with an intensity that made her turn away quickly.
"I can—" She started to say she could bathe herself, but the words died as his hands settled on her shoulders.
"You can what?" His thumbs traced the curve where neck met shoulder, careful to press against the bite he'd left. Without the barrier of his shirt, she could feel the heat of him, not cold as she'd expected, but burning like winter fever. "Wash away another male's touch by yourself? I think not."
She tried not to react to his skin against hers, to the way the warmth in her chest seemed to sing at the contact. This was about possession, she reminded herself. Control. Not the way her traitorous body wanted to lean back into him.
He guided her forward, and the water rose to meet her like a living thing. The first step sent shock through her, not from the heat, though it was hot enough to sting. The water itself was as aware as the water in her own tub, yet different, investigating, cataloguing every place she'd been touched.
