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“Thanks to you.” I hesitate, then ask, “What happened? Back at the manor?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He scoops me into his arms, rises to his feet, and strides toward the small set of stairs descending into the baths. “I can’t stand the scent of another’s blood on you.”

“You don’t smell so lovely yourself.” I wrinkle my nose at him. “And I do want to talk about it.”

My mate’s face is stony, unreadable, as he plunges us into the water, clothes and all.

He releases me once we’re chest deep, and I slip off my single scrap of lace and chuck it at him. He catches it with ease and balls it into his fist before tossing it out onto the limestone.

“Aren’t you feeling a little overdressed, Quill?” I lift a brow. “Strip.”

His eyes alight at the command, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

When he’s fully himself, he likes when I order him around.

I swim to the edge of the baths and retrieve the tray holding several bottles of soaps and creams.

Articles of clothing soar through the air and land on the limestone in thick, wet lumps. Carrying the tray back, I take my time returning to him, admiring the glint of water sluicing from his muscular chest, the beads gliding down, down, down his abdomen to the stretch of muscles pointing in an arrowhead to his hips.

He takes the tray from me and holds it.

I lather a cloth with soap and begin washing away the blood caked to his skin. It’s flecked on his neck, splattered across his face, hardened in his hair, and staining his hands. White bubbles turn pink as I cleanse him, inch by inch.

I wait for him to bring up what happened in the manor.

I reach for the nail file and remove the skin and blood and hair from beneath his nails.

We both know who this... belonged to.

My gaze flicks up to his. “We’re going to have to talk about what happened eventually.”

The handsome planes of his face harden, edging with disquietude. “I don’t know what happened, Rory.”

I set the file aside and reach for a clean cloth. Lathering it, I tend to his face as if I can wash his unease away. “Walk me through it.”

“I felt your pain,” he says. “Then smelled your blood in the air. When I finally made it upstairs, I saw you crumpled before him. Fear chained me to the spot, but the predator within me broke free at the thought of that bastard taking you from me.” His eyes shut, and I gingerly cleanse the blood from his lids. “You must allow me to apologize⁠—”

“For saving my life?”

His gaze snaps open. “For scaring you.”

“You could never scare me.”

The absurd look he gives me is indicative enough of his disbelief.

“I scared myself, Rory. I’ve never lost control like that.” He shakes his head, wet hair clinging to his forehead. I brush it away with my fingers. “It was like all rational thought fled from my body, and all I wanted was to kill him before he killed you. But the horrors I wrought upon Brutus⁠—”

“Don’t you dare feel guilty for the death you doled out to him,” I snarl.

“You think I give a fuck about Brutus? I don’t. I only wish his death was slower, more painful than the justice I delivered.” He’s tense, coiled tight. “As the beast took over, all I craved was pain and violence. It didn’t matter if it was Brutus, another guard, my kindred.” He takes a step back. “Rory, I could have hurt you.”

I set the pink-stained cloth aside and close the distance he’s trying to put between us. Cupping his face in both hands, I say, “You’ve never hurt me, and you never will.”

He stares at me like he doesn’t believe me.

Like he’s as damned as Godrick.

“You may be his son, but you’re not him,” I whisper. “I’m safe with you.”