His breath was still heavy against my ear, but his hands had already gentled. No more rough gripping-now it was soft, slow, careful touches. He pulled out of me with a soft groan, placing a kiss just above my heart, then my lips, and finally my forehead.
"Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart," he whispered, like I was something fragile in his hands now. He carried me with ease, the way someone might cradle the most precious thing in the world, and gently laid me down on the bed, tucking a pillow under my head.
The sheets felt cool against my flushed skin, but his warmth never left.
I heard the rip of a tissue box and glanced up to see him crouching beside the bed, wiping my thighs with the softest care. Not hurried. Not annoyed. Just quiet, patient focus—tending to every slick, sticky trace of what we'd done. He didn't flinch, didn't frown. Just cleaned me like I was sacred.
Once he was done, he scooped me up again and carried me to the bath, already drawn. I hadn't even realized he'd run the water.
The tub was warm, fragrant with something floral and soothing. He sat me in it gently, then joined behind me, his arms around my waist and his lips brushing my shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmured, reaching for a washcloth. He took his time, washing every inch of me like I was royalty and he was born to serve. My legs, my arms, even my fingers, he washed and kissed them all. And when I leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut, I felt him smile against my damp skin.
After the bath, he wrapped me in a towel and carried me back to the bed again. He dried my hair with one of his shirts, dabbing gently, before grabbing a blanket and wrapping me in it like a burrito.
"Have you eaten?" he asked softly, brushing his fingers through my damp strands.
I shook my head, and he tsked. "I thought so."
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a small bowl of grapes, freshly washed and still cold. He sat beside me and held one up.
"Open," he said, lips quirking into a little smirk.
I opened my mouth and took it and the sweetness on my tongue almost made me sigh. He fed me another. And another. Fingers brushing my lips each time like he wanted to kiss them again.
"You were perfect," he whispered between grapes. "Now let me spoil you."
And he did.
He dressed me gently, handling my clothes with such care, like I was made of glass. His fingers brushed along my skin with reverence, his gaze never leaving mine. Once I was fully clothed again, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to my forehead.
I was seated comfortably in the grand, dim-lit bedroom, the air around us thick with the silence of the old mansion, the corners cloaked in shadows. It should have been eerie. It should have chilled me. But it didn't. Because he was there.
And it's like he read my mind. He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand and murmured, "Sleep, love. I'll be right outside. I'll join you soon."
I nodded, too tired to question anything. My eyes fluttered shut, and sleep pulled me under almost instantly.
Just as he'd promised, only minutes passed before I felt it a heavy, warm body curling behind mine, an arm sliding protectively around my waist, anchoring me like the tide. A breeze, somehow warm and familiar, brushed against my cheek as he nestled close.
I smiled in my sleep, a soft purr escaping my lips, and nuzzled into the safety of his embrace. My head rested against the solid strength of his arm, the rhythm of his breathing lulling me further into peace.
But then, unbidden, my eyes drifted to a distant corner of the room.
There just barely visible in the low moonlight—was the spot where Lucius had stood. Where he had handed me the sword. The one I had tucked away the moment I knew Veryon might come. Hidden from him.
My chest tightened.
Why had my thoughts gone to Lucius?
Why, in this sacred quiet, with this man holding me so closely, so earnestly…
Why did Lucius find a way back into my mind?
Why?