“I’m sure you can.” She tested the water with her hand, made a small tweak on the faucet, and turned to face me. “Please don’t fall asleep in the bathtub and drown, because it would create all sorts of complications I’d rather avoid.”
“I’m not going to drown.”
“You look half-dead on your feet.” She gestured to the tub. “Bathe. I’ll make sure you don’t die. Consider it strategic alliance maintenance.”
Despite everything, a laugh tried to work its way out of my chest. I forced it down, but she must have seen something in my expression because the corners of her mouth twitched upward.
I started stripping off my furs.
She’d seen male bodies before, probably. And if she hadn’t, well, she was about to.
I pulled my shirt over my head and caught her eyes widening before she spun fast, giving me her back.
“We’re married,” I said, working on my belt.
“I wouldn’t know, since I haven’t seen you since our wedding day.” Her voice came out perfectly level, but I heard the irritation underneath it.
Guilt did its best to lay me flat. I’d avoided her, convinced that distance was necessary. The bond didn’t matter. Strategic marriages didn’t require actual partnership.
Taking in the set of her shoulders and the way she kept her back carefully turned suggested I’d hurt her.
The knowledge sat heavy in my gut.
I stepped into the tub, sinking down into water hot enough to make every muscle I possessed groan with relief. The heat soaked into my bones, washing away three days of cold and tension.
“You can turn around now,” I said. “Unless you’re shy.”
“I’m not shy.” She pivoted, keeping her eyes firmly on my face. “I’m respecting your privacy.”
“How considerate, wife.”
I’d used the word deliberately, watching to see what she’d do.
“You’re welcome, husband.” She said it the same way she might say “specimen” or “hypothesis,” testing the word’s weight and finding it interesting but not particularly meaningful.
The casual use of “husband” hit differently than I’d expected. My wolf rumbled approval, pleased to hear our mate acknowledge the bond.
I was not happy about my wolf’s pleasure.
She pulled over a small stool, settling onto it with her hands folded in her lap. That analytical expression slid across herface again, and I recognized it now as the look she got before explaining something she found interesting.
“While you were gone,” she said, “I gathered preliminary information about the shifting sickness.”
The relaxation I’d started to feel evaporated. I bolted upright. “You what?”
“I spoke with a few members of your pack. Asked questions. Compiled data.” She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she hadn’t ignored the boundaries I’d set. “I found several concerning patterns you should know about.”
“I told you not to interfere.”
“I didn’t interfere. I investigated.” She held up one finger. “First, the silverleaf treatments the affected members of your pack are taking are making them worse.”
I sat up even straighter, water sloshing over the rim. “What?”
She tutted and tossed a towel onto the floor to absorb the water.
“They weren’t including yarrow,” she said. “Without yarrow root to activate the restorative properties, silverleaf just increases fatigue.” She said it matter-of-factly, like she was discussing weather patterns. “I left a vial of yarrow extract with Helen. Two drops per cup of tea, steeped for four minutes. You should see improvement among those affected soon.”
I gripped the edge of the tub. “How did you?—”
