Thorne knelt at the edge of the basin, his knees resting on a plush mat. His sleeves were still rolled up, arms braced both sides of a carved wooden pitcher. His hair, damp at the ends, curled slightly at the base of his neck.
“May I?” he asked quietly.
She opened her eyes. Saw the pitcher. Saw the restraint in his posture.
She gave a slow nod.
He dipped the pitcher, then poured the warm water over her hair. It slid down her crown, over her temples and nape, drawing another soft exhale from her. His fingers followed, threading gently through her hair as he worked the oil into her scalp. The strokes were careful and reverent. The kind of touch that didn’t seek to possess, only to ease.
The rhythm of his hands lulled her. She let herself fall into it, not needing to brace herself. His presence wasn’t demanding. Only steady.
“You really don’t mind?” she asked, voice feather-light.
“No,” he said. Just that. No conditions.
He rinsed her hair again, brushing loose strands from her neck, his fingers ghosting over the edge of her collarbone. Then he took a folded cloth and dipped it into the water, wringing it out with slow precision. She felt the touch of it against her shoulder, soft as breath.
She could feel the tension in him, like he was holding something back. Like the way he touched her wasn’t only gentleness, but reverence carved with restraint. Moments passed. The water shifted behind her.
Then his voice, lower now: “May I wash you?”
She opened her eyes, breath fluttering.
He held the cloth in one hand, damp and soaped, waiting.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His strokes were slow. He started at her shoulder, careful around the burns, and dragged the cloth across her collarbone, her upper arms, and her throat. Each pass was measured. Controlled. But his breathing was not.
Neither was hers.
His fingers lingered at the curve of her back, at the dip of her waist where skin met water. He never crossed the line, but his nearness, his restraint, was its own kind of torment.
She could feel the tension radiating from him, heat coiled beneath the surface, barely held in check. Her pulse thrummed in her neck, wild and traitorous.
When he finally set the cloth aside, he began to rise.
She caught his hand. Her fingers curled around his wrist. The warmth of the bath masked the heat in her skin, but not the shiver that ran through her.
“Stay,” she said, her voice low.
He stilled. Then, slowly, Thorne nodded. He started to lower himself to the edge of the tub, hands braced to kneel beside her again.
“No,” she said. Her voice was low and breathless. It held a different kind of command this time. “I want you to come in with me.”
His eyes flicked to hers, something unreadable stirring in thedepths. A long pause stretched between them. Then, the air was charged and thick with rising heat, and he stood.
Thaelyn sat forward in the water, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, watching.
He reached for the edge of his tunic, fingers curling around the hem. His eyes never left hers as he pulled it slowly over his head.
Her breath caught in her throat before she could stop it.
His chest was all carved angles and tensioned strength. Every muscle defined from years of combat, sun-browned and battle-scarred. Across his chest and curling down the ridges of his ribs stretched the black, burnished mark of Vornokh, his dragon sigil. It shimmered faintly under the sconces, like ink alive with fire.
Her gaze dropped. She couldn’t help it.
His abdomen was sculpted and taut, the lines of each muscle perfectly defined, from the curve beneath his ribs to the sharp V that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. A water droplet dripped down his chest from a loose tendril of his hair that had fallen when he took his tunic off. The droplet of water trailed over his sternum and down to his navel. Her eyes followed and watched in delight. Her breath came shallow now. Her heartbeat was beating faster with every passing second.
