Terrifying and ancient and absolutely beautiful.
And he's completely focused on taking care of me.
"Cyprian," I say quietly.
He doesn't look up from the tub controls.
"The water will be ready in thirty seconds."
"I'm okay."
"You are not okay. You are cold and exhausted and—"
"I'm okay because you're here."
That makes him pause.
He turns, his amber eyes locking onto mine.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
And then he moves.
Not fast.
Not with any kind of urgency.
Just slow, deliberate steps that close the distance between us until he's standing directly in front of me, his frame blocking out the rest of the bathroom.
"I need to remove the gown," he says.
My breath catches.
"Okay."
His hands move to my shoulders.
Massive.
Heavy.
Capable of crushing stone.
But his touch is feather-light as he slides the thin silk straps down my arms, his claws carefully retracted to avoid snagging the delicate fabric.
The gown is ruined.
Completely, irreparably ruined.
The rain has turned the obsidian silk into a wrinkled, clinging mess. There are tiny tears along the hem where it caught on the shattered glass. The custom beading along the bodice is coming loose.
But Cyprian handles it like it's priceless.
Like I'm priceless.
He peels the wet fabric away from my skin with absolute reverence, his hands working the gown down over my hips, past my thighs, until it pools around my ankles in a sodden heap.
I'm left in just my underwear.
