That makes her turn back around. She peeks between her fingers, and then, seeing that I’m mostly covered, she drops her hand.
Her hair is wet, clearly from her own bath, and wrapped into a ropy braid. Her skin is also fresh-scrubbed. The worn armor and riding clothes are gone, replaced with a linen dress with a green overskirt. She looks simple and innocent and pretty, and I much prefer this to the tense, formal Princess Marjoriana who lives in the palace in Astranza.
“What’s with the look?” she teases.
“I’m thinking you’re beautiful,” I say, and there’s no teasing in my tone at all.
She sobers. Then frowns. And then her eyes well.
“Ah, Jory,” I say. “Don’t cry.”
She comes into the washroom and all but drops to her knees beside the tub, and I realize this the first time we’ve been alone together since the morning I received orders to kill both her and the king.
She puts her hand on the edge of the tub, and I put mine over hers.
“Be mindful of the stones,” I say softly.
She swallows and nods, and a tear slips down her cheek.
I reach up to brush it away, but my hand is wet, so it just adds more. I frown. “I’m making it worse,” I say.
“You’re not.” Her eyes gaze up at me. “Asher, I love when you touch me.”
That tugs at my heart in so many ways. I’ve wanted her forever, but my life made that far too complicated. And she’s always been destined for someone else—including right now. Last night, she was scuffling with the king, and I know where that would’ve led if I hadn’t woken up.
But now she’s kneeling in front ofme, her eyes wide and trusting, my fingers tracing a line of water across her cheek.
Both of these images tangle up in my mind, and suddenly, my cock stiffens. I’m grateful for the bubbles.
But then she puts a hand over mine, and the rest of me goes tense. I pull my hand back automatically, without meaning to.
Jory frowns. She puts her hand back on the rim of the tub.
After a moment, I put my hand back over hers.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, as if she suddenly understands the significance. As if she finally understands why I can touch her, though it’s so very different whenshetouchesme.
“You could have told me,” she says, and her voice is so soft. “About the slavers.”
My hand goes still. “No,” I say. “I couldn’t.”
“I really would have tried to help you.”
“No one could’ve helped me,” I say, and I mean it. “Not even you, Jor.”
I should tell her to leave. Ineedto tell her to leave. Touching her is reckless, because every time I start, I never want to let her go.
But I brush a damp finger along her cheekbone again, more slowly this time.
Her breath catches. Just a little. Just enough.
The king will probably kill me for this, but we’re alone and it’s warm and I’ve been in love with her forever. I lean forward, just a bit, and brush my lips against hers. I smell the lavender, I taste her tears. Her lips part, and she kisses me back. But it’s small. Gentle. Soft. Nothing like the rough-and-tumble passion she shared with the king before I interrupted.
Would I want that? I don’t know. I take hold of her hand, then press it to my cheek. But when her fingers land on my skin, I freeze.
She draws back, but she leaves her fingers there. I leave my face there.
“Am I hurting you?” she whispers.
