"What happens now?" I ask as he rinses the soap from my hair.
His hands pause momentarily before resuming their gentle work. "Now you rest and heal."
"And then?"
He moves around to face me again, his expression unreadable. "And then we find out who manipulated us both, and we make them pay."
We. The word hangs between us, laden with implications neither of us is ready to examine.
When the bath is finished, he wraps me in a soft black robe and carries me to the bed. I expect him to leave, to give me privacy to dress, but instead he sits beside me, his eyes tracking over my face as if memorizing each feature.
"Why do you look at me like that?" I ask, my hand rising of its own accord to touch his cheek.
His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features before he can mask it. Instead of answering with words, he leans forward, his lips finding mine in a kiss so different from any we shared before—no dominance, no possession—just a desperate reverence that steals my breath.
His arms encircle me, pulling me close with careful gentleness. I should push him away. After everything that happened today, I should want nothing to do with any man's touch. But something in this embrace—in the way he holds me like I might shatter, like I'm something precious he's afraid of breaking—demolishes the last of my defenses.
When I kiss him back, my fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him closer, he groans into my mouth—a sound so raw, so broken, it vibrates through my entire being. The sound ignites a heat I thought Asher's violation extinguished forever. But this is different—this isn't conquest or possession. This is reverence.
"Seraphina," he murmurs against my lips, and the way he says my name sounds like a prayer, like worship.
His shadows retreat completely now, melting into the corners like they understand this moment belongs to us alone. He eases me back onto the pillows, his movements so gentle I want to weep. When he pulls back to search my face, his eyes hold something I never saw before—vulnerability so profound it takes my breath away.
"We don't have to," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "Not after what he?—"
I silence him with another kiss, desperate and hungry. "I need to feel clean again," I rasp into his mouth, the words scraping my throat raw. "I need to feel like I belong to myself again."
Safe, I don't say. But the word travels between us anyway, and I feel his fierce protective instinct flare in response.
"You do belong to yourself," he murmurs, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones with devastating tenderness. "You always have. Let me show you."
He undresses me with reverent hands and when his fingers brush my skin, I shiver—not from cold, but from the gentle worship in his touch. Every caress is a question, every kiss a request for permission.
"I'm going to erase every trace of him," he breathes into my throat, his voice thick with promise. "Every touch, every mark, every memory. There will be only us."
When his lips trail down my neck—so close to the mating mark he left there—I arch beneath him, gasping. He takes his time, pressing reverent kisses to my collarbone, my shoulder, the sensitive hollow of my throat. His mouth moves lower, worshipping my breasts with gentle devotion that makes moisture leak from my closed eyes.
"So beautiful," he breathes over my skin. "So perfect. How did I ever think I could live without this?"
His confession breaks something open in my chest. When he continues his worship, mapping every inch of my body with lips and tongue and gentle teeth, I tremble beneath him. He kisses my ribs, my stomach, the sharp jut of my hip bones, murmuring endearments in a language I don't recognize but somehow understand through his emotions.
"Mine to protect," he breathes over my inner thigh, his breath hot on sensitive skin. "Mine to cherish. Let me worship you the way you deserve."
When his mouth finds the center of my need, I cry out, my back curving violently off the bed. The first touch of his tongue on my most sensitive flesh sends lightning through my veins. He starts with gentle, exploratory licks, his tongue flat and warm as he tastes me with reverent hunger.
"Sweet," he murmurs into my heated core, his voice vibrating against my sensitive flesh, making me gasp. "Absolutely perfect."
His tongue circles my swollen center with maddening skill, alternating between broad, languid strokes and focused flicks that make my thighs tremble. When he draws the sensitive bud between his lips and sucks gently, I nearly come apart completely, my fingers fisting in his hair as a broken moan tears from my throat.
But it's the tenderness that truly undoes me—the way his large hands spread over my hips to hold me steady when I thrash beneath his mouth, the way he gentles his assault when I'm overwhelmed, murmuring soothing words into my slick flesh. He maps every fold, every sensitive spot with devoted attention, his tongue delving deeper to taste my arousal before returning to that perfect spot that makes me see stars.
He brings me to the very edge of release, my entire body strung tight as a bowstring, and then pulls back, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs while I sob with need. "Not yet," he breathes over my wetness, his voice commanding but gentle. "I want to worship you properly."
Again and again he builds the pleasure, his tongue working me with devastating skill—now quick, darting flicks that make me buck beneath his mouth, now slow, thorough strokes that make me keen his name. When he slides one long finger inside me while his tongue continues its relentless worship, I shatter completely, crying out so loudly I'm sure the entire palace can hear.
"Malakai, please?—"
"I know, my heart," he soothes, pressing kisses to my trembling thighs. "I know. Let me take care of you."
