"This feels amazing."
He started to stand. Started to give her privacy.
Her hand shot out and caught his wrist. "Where are you going?"
"To give you space?—"
"Don't." She opened her eyes and looked up at him, something raw in her expression. "Stay. Please."
Thepleasebroke something in him.
He nodded, started unfastening his shirt because he'd been wearing the same clothes for two days and they deserved to be burned. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, exhaustion and lingering weakness making simple tasks harder than they should be.
She watched him struggle. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter.
"You're not. You gave too much. Pushed too far. You're barely standing."
He took off his shirt, let it fall. The cool air hit his bare chest, raising goosebumps. Or maybe that was her gaze tracking over him. "I'll recover."
"How long?"
"A few more days. Maybe a week." He stripped completely, too tired to care about modesty. Too aware that modesty between them had died somewhere around the time he'd poured part of his soul into hers. "My power is returning—just slowly."
He stepped into the tub on the opposite side. The hot water felt incredible against muscles that had been locked in one position for forty-eight hours. He sank down with a sound he couldn't suppress.
When he opened his eyes, she was watching him.
Even weakened, his shadows curled.
"You look exhausted."
"I am." No point denying what she could feel through the bond anyway.
She shifted slightly. Winced.
"Sore?"
"Everywhere." She tried to smile. Failed. "Apparently, almost dying means every muscle hurts."
"Let me help." He moved through the water toward her. "I can wash your hair. The rest." He paused. "If you want."
"Please."
He positioned himself behind her. Close enough to reach but not quite touching. The water rippled between them.
"Lean back."
She did. Trusted him completely as she let her head fall back, let him support her weight with one hand while the other wet her hair. His fingers moved through the strands, dark silk beneath the water, heavy against his palms, spreading around her.
Beautiful. She was so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.
He reached for the soap. The scent filled the space between them—jasmine and night-blooming flowers, something he'd had made specifically for her weeks ago—before the battle, before everything changed.
Back when he'd pretended this was just a political alliance.
The lies he'd told himself seemed laughable now.
