Just warm, fluid motion.
I turn my head.
And I look at her.
Tamsin is still sitting on the table behind me, her legs tucked beneath her, her hands resting on her thighs. Her face is flushed from the heat of the room, her hair falling loose from the messy knot she secured with her pen. There is volcanic oil smudged on her forearms, and her tank top is damp with sweat.
She looks exhausted.
But she is not looking at me with pity.
She is not looking at me with fear.
She is just looking at me.
Our eyes meet.
The weight of the moment presses down on my chest like a physical force. I have just confessed eight centuries of isolation to this woman, and now I am sitting here, fully exposed, waiting for her to say something. Anything.
She tilts her head slightly.
And then she speaks.
"Eight hundred years alone," she says, her voice dry and matter-of-fact. "That explains the emotional vocabulary of a Victorian butler."
I blink.
It takes my brain a full three seconds to process what she just said.
And then, despite everything, despite the crushing vulnerability and the terror and the absolute certainty that I have just destroyed myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.
It is not quite a smile.
But it is close.
Tamsin slides off the table, her bare feet landing softly on the heated stone floor. She moves around the room with practiced efficiency, grabbing a fresh towel from the supply station and wiping the excess volcanic oil from her hands.
She does not treat me like I am broken.
She does not coddle me.
She just moves through the space like this is any other session, like I have not just laid my soul bare in front of her.
And somehow, that is exactly what I need.
"You're going to need to rinse off," she says, nodding toward the small washroom attached to the suite. "That oil is going to harden if you leave it on too long."
I do not move.
I am still processing the fact that she has not left.
She glances over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Cyprian. Washroom. Now."
Her tone is sharp. Professional. Completely unimpressed by my seven-foot frame and my sprawling, towering frame and the fact that I just confessed eight centuries of loneliness.
I stand.
The movement is smooth. Effortless. My body responds without hesitation, and I walk toward the washroom, my wings folding tightly against my back to fit through the doorway.
