“What’s wrong?” he asks. His gaze is sharp, already scanning for injury.
I gesture to my legs. “I’m sore. From, um, standing.”
Tension seeps from his shoulders, and the corner of his mouth twitches. Hetsks. “My poor baby healer. Can’t handle a bit of soreness?”
I roll my eyes, but the smile tugs at my lips anyway.
He disappears into the washroom. “Don’t waste your reserves,” he calls. “I’ll be right out.”
When he returns, a small bottle of oil glints in his hand. He sinks onto the sofa beside me and, without waiting for permission, draws my bare legs into his lap.
“Zev—” I start.
He uncorks the bottle with a soft pop. “Relax,” he says huskily, “Let me take care of you.”
Warm oil slicks his hands before they glide up my calves, thumbs pressing into the aching muscles with ease. A soft moan escapes before I can stop it.
“What are you doing?” My voice is already breathy—embarrassingly so.
“Easing your aches,” he says with a cocky smile, as though his hands aren’t undoing me with every stroke. “You don’t have to fix everything with your power. Some of our backwards methods are effective, too.”
He winks, and my heart forgets its job.
His fingers knead slow circles into my legs, working their way higher. Heat unfurls low in my belly. I try to stay focused, to stay rational, but it’s like trying to think through dense fog.
Be still, Mayah. Be strong. But my body isn’t listening.
“I don’t think your methods are backwards,” I manage. A sharp gasp slips free as he finds a particularly tight knot and presses into it.
His smirk is wicked. “No?” His hands slide up to my knees, his palms large and warm and unrelenting.
Higher.
Every inch he climbs feels like an unspoken question. And my silence is its own dangerous answer.
I swallow. “Any updates on the Rebellion?”
He hums, never slowing his movements. “They’ve taken more land on the Arbinj side.”
My brain barely registers the words. My world is narrowing—my thoughts a desperate chant: This is a mistake. This is dangerous. Keep control.
And yet, I don’t stop him.
His hands glide higher still, skimming the soft skin of my thighs, so close to the hem of my short nightgown, it makes my breath stutter.
“What about—what about Tundrayn,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “My father—is he sending aid?”
“Two battalions to the border and a promise for another. Which was more than I expected.” He watches me closely as his fingers tease the lace at the edge of my gown. “I don’t think he wants to risk losing you.”
He says it casually, but a possessive edge sharpens his tone.
You’re not his to lose. You’re mine.
I clench my thighs, but he’s already there, massaging slowly, thoroughly, like he has nothing better to do.
“Any otherachesI can help you with, wife?” His voice is velvet-wrapped sin.
I should say no. I should run. I should bolt to my feet and try to retain some of my dignity.
