“You missed some,” Shayde said, his voice rough with sleep.
“I know,” I growled through clenched teeth. “Someone used all the hot water. And after freezing last night, I was really looking forward to not washing my hair with a bucket of ice.”
He bit his lip, clearly suppressing a laugh. The corner of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said, throwing the covers back and jumping out of bed. “Come on. Let’s check the sink.”
I tightened the towel around myself as he moved past me, flipping on the sink faucet and holding his fingers under the stream.
Shayde wiped his hand on his pants and looked over his shoulder. “There. Use the sink. It’s still got hot water.”
I looked from the tiny porcelain bowl to Shayde. “I’ll break my neck trying to wash my hair in that thing,” I deadpanned.
He glanced at the sink, raised an eyebrow, then shrugged with maddening nonchalance as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Not a terrible idea.”
I could feel my water element boiling in my veins as we stared each other down in the cramped space. Him shirtless, me wrapped in a damp towel with suds sliding down my shoulders.
Shayde brushed past me without another word and disappeared into the main room.
I let out a breath and leaned over the sink, twisting at an awkward angle to see what might work. I had one shoulder dipped and my head angled sideways when I heard feet scuffing the floor behind me.
I turned my head just in time to see Shayde walking back in with the armchair.
His eyes went wide. His cheeks flushed.
It took me half a second to realize I was bent over, barely covered, with the towel riding dangerously high. I bolted upright, smacking the back of my head on the faucet with a loud clang.
“Here,” he said quickly, avoiding my eyes as he motioned for me to move. “Let me do it.”
I blinked. Words failed me. My brain lagged a full five seconds behind my body as I pressed a hand to the throbbing spot on myscalp and watched him drag the chair into position beneath the faucet.
Still eyeing him as if he might bite, I lowered myself onto the cushion. The second I leaned back, he gathered my hair in his hands, the pads of his fingers surprisingly gentle against my scalp.
He worked in silence, rinsing the suds away as hot water trickled over his fingers and down my neck.
My eyes fluttered shut as his strong fingers massaged my scalp, washing away every bit of dirt, grime, and soap. My breathing slowed, and I nearly drifted off. Even with the cheap toiletries, Shayde still carried that familiar scent of citrus and bergamot. The mix of his smell and the intimate act of washing my hair stirred butterflies low in my stomach I’d never felt before.
That thought snapped my eyes open.
He was bent over the sink, arms flexing with each movement, muscles shifting beneath his skin, expression focused. And still, he was careful—not brushing against me unless he had to. But the moments his body did brush against mine…
That… wasn’t helping.
The faucet squeaked as he shut it off, and Shayde gently wrung the water from my hair. He reached for a towel, but I stopped him before he could start drying it.
I took it from his hands. “I’ve got it.”
For a moment, his features had softened—calm, almost peaceful, a version of him I’d never seen. But in a blink, the warmth drained away. His mask slipped back into place: indifferent, detached.
Without a word, he turned and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
I dried off quickly and slipped into my oversized sleep shirt before stepping into the main room. The oil lamp had been extinguished, leaving everything cast in shadow. Shayde was already under the covers, lying on his side with his back to me. From the steady rise and fall of his shoulders, I couldn’t tell if he was asleep—or pretending.
Lifting the covers carefully, I slid into bed, making sure not to disturb the wall of pillows he’d built between us. Even with the barrier, I could feel his warmth radiating from his body, and I yearned to snuggle up against him.
I flipped onto my other side forcefully, reminding myself that IhateShayde Wylder.
Instead of thinking about him, my mind raced ahead to tomorrow’s events. We would be two of the few Aryans ever to step foot inside Tyria’s stronghold. I’d grown up believing the Tyrians were monsters—ruthless, bitter people who blamed us for everything that went wrong on their side of the Barrens, people who would hurt us if given the chance.
