I look down at myself; the once-white shirt is a muddy beige, and the trousers are soaked in dirty water. My forearms and hands aren’t looking much better either.
“Leave that,” he nods toward the cleaning supplies. “Join me,” he adds, and walks through a nearby door.
Without hesitating, I drop the rag where I knelt, and I follow him.
I enter a room I haven’t seen before. It’s practically empty besides a giant basin placed at the centre. The only light source is a massive fireplace. A fire taller than me dances between life-sized stone men, their naked forms grimly holding it up at the sides. I can feel its heat radiating through the room, the flamespushing the gloom away with force. The blistering of the logs sounds like a distant choir, singing of promises and obliteration.
There’s a chair, a chaise longue, and little else. Abas stands next to the fireplace, watching me expectantly. I don’t move from the threshold, unsure of what to do.
“Get in,” Abas beckons.
I hesitate for a moment, then walk over to the basin. It’s huge, and there’s steam rising from the inside. When I get closer, I see it’s filled to the rim with invitingly hot water. I take a second to digest this, too stunned to say anything. But it looks so enticing that I strip my dirty clothes and slip into the basin faster than I can count to three. The water is hotter than expected, but it feels glorious on my sore limbs. I melt into it until my bones stop shouting at me.
Abas walks around the basin while unbuttoning his black waistcoat with one hand, then drops it on the floor. A cream coloured shirt follows. He keeps his trim black trousers on, yet my eyes catch on the deep brass of his skin, a colour too vivid for this desolate castle. Seeing his body this close and fully lit is intimidating. He isn’t ripped like the models in the swimsuit ads that litter every single doctor’s office in the city. He’s thick, built like he could tear a tree from the earth with his bare hands. His muscles twitch to the rhythm of his breath, and I can’t deny it’s completely hypnotising. I want to feel them, lick them, bite them.
He crouches next to the basin, dipping one hand into the water. His long fingers twirl little waves that climb up my skin when they reach me. I want to feel his hands on me with such intensity, it makes me shiver. His hair falls into his face when he looks to the bottom of the basin as if it’s filled with secrets. Then, with his other hand, he runs his fingers through his waves.
Abas glances at the fireplace, revealing his stunning profile, with a nose too large and a mouth too full. He looks up, catchingme staring. My face burns, as though I’ve been caught doing something forbidden. His eyes glisten in the firelight, and he’s looking at me like I’mperfectly ripe fruit he wants to taste. I hear myself swallow surprisingly loud, and suddenly I don’t know what to do with my hands. So I take my hat and throw it in a corner. My hair falls onto my shoulders like a cape, the tips floating on the surface like seaweed. Abas tilts his head like a curious animal, looking me up and down intently, following the lines of the tendrils with predatory intensity.
Suddenly, he stands up and leaves. I feel the urge to call him back, but before I can, he’s returned with a washcloth and a bar of soap. He lathers the fabric until it’s frothy and white. With his other hand, he pulls my foot out of the water, making me lose my balance in the slippery tub. I gasp for air at the feeling of Abas’ fingers on my skin. They’re cold, firm, and the touch is making my stomach flutter. When I‘m steady again, he starts to clean each of my legs. He takes his time, making sure to get every single inch. I lean back and melt into the heat, eyes closed, enjoying his touch.
The scent of the soap fills the room; it’s herbaceous, and something about it tugs at my memories. Strangely, this moment feels more alive than the rest of this castle. Maybe it’s the abundance of sounds: the hissing fire, water lapping at wet wood, scraping of fabric, the breath escaping my lungs. Or it might be the warmth filling me from the inside. But everything fades when Abas moves his hands up toward my chest.
I swallow a gasp as he drags a finger from my stomach up my torso, all the way until he reaches my throat. His hands are rougher than I expected, clearly callused from manual labour.My cock is hard now, my body unable to contain the intensity of the sensations anymore. When he’s done with my chest, he cleans my cock in slow and smooth motions. Then he moves to my back, and I lean into his touch. I try to remember the lasttime anyone touched me this much, and I can’t think of a single one. Maybe as a child. But never like this.
“May I wash your hair?” Abas asks.
“Yes,” I whisper, shocking myself with that answer. I don’t let people touch my hair, not even a barber.
He uses his hands to slowly drip water over my head, tipping it backward over the tub, and I hearitsplashing onto the floor. Abas takes his time massaging my scalp with soap, taking care to rinse every single strand.
“What a strange colour,” he whispers into my ear. His mouth is so close that I can feel his cold breath on my cheek. “Your colouring looks as though it were conjured by an artist. Unnatural and mesmerising,” he adds.
Did he really just say that? I mean, I know my hair is an unusual shade of beige, and in certain light, you can see the slightest hint of grey, but hearing a compliment from Abas feels almost like a trap. He starts cupping handfuls of water to rinse the soap out of my hair, soaking the floorboards around the tub.
“I want to wash you, too,” I say quietly when he’s done with my hair.
He stands up and takes his trousers off. They fall onto the floor with a wet thud. He reveals his hard cock, delectable and inviting. He comes around the tub, and I stand up to make space for him. Abas’ eyes go wide, and he staggers back, hands jerking to his head. A suppressed groan tears from his throat. He’s clutching his hair, something making him nearly drop to his knees to the floor.
“Get out,” he shouts, rushing to the fireplace.
A raw, anguished sound escapes him as he grips the mantle. The stone crumbles beneath his fingers, and I stare at him, confused by his sudden anger. Then he moves. Too fast. A candlestick flies past me, shattering against the wall. I flinch, feeling too naked for this.
“Get. The fuck. Out,” he growls between shallow breaths.
I grab my clothes and rush out of the room. In the cold, dark corridor, I hear wood splinter. Then, a rush—a flood of water hitting the stone floor.
XI
I’m thoroughly confused about what just happened in the bathroom. Abas’ anger was nothing new, but the tenderness with which he bathed me definitely was. What baffles me the most is the abrupt change from tenderness to rage. For a moment, I consider if asking to wash him was the trigger. But that doesn’t feel right. I can still clearly see him dropping his trousers to join me, can hear the dull thud when they hit the floor.
It must be something else.
I have the weird feeling that the care Abas radiated was more real than his anger. The intimacy of his touch, the tenderness with which he cleaned my body.
Then, I let him wash my hair. I must have sensed that he could be trusted with my most guarded part, an intimacy I’ve never shared with anyone before. And he held it softly, like it was precious until—I remember the look in his eyes just before everything changed, almost sad and beseeching. I saw it for an instant before overwhelming rage filled the room.
I know there’s no point continuing on this train of thought. I won’t figure out what’s going on by analysing the unanalysable.Instead of obsessing over this, I choose to trust my instincts. Might be foolish, but it doesn’t matter.
