The bath chambers are adjoining their bed chambers. It was already warm with steam, the air fragrant with crushed mint leaves and slices of citrus drifting in polished marble basins. Bronze sconces along the walls glowed low, refracted light dancing across the tiled floors like silent waves.
Fae and Kiri bowed as soon as the door opened and exited the chambers immediately.
They had already prepared the bath—just as expected. Water high, temperature exact. Rose oil. No petals. Quiet. Always quiet.
Yen entered first, shrugging off the robe that had been draped over his shoulders. The fabric pooled behind him like shed armor. He simply walked into the water and sank into the heat like it owed him something.
His muscles eased.
His arms stretched along the rim of the tub.
His eyes closed.
He looked like a statue—some ancient carving of war and divinity, designed to be worshiped, never touched without permission.
Lily undressed quietly behind him.
No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just precision.
She folded the layers of her dress before stepping into the water second.
The surface rippled around her legs. The warmth should've comforted. It didn't. It only made the ache in her spine more pronounced, reminded her that her body was too thin, her hips bruised, her ribs still tender from where his palm had pressed.
Yen didn't open his eyes as she moved between his legs.
He didn't need to.
She picked up the cloth from the basin beside them—soft linen soaked with lather—and dipped it again into the suds. Then she began.
Her hands moved slowly, gently scrubbing over the planes of his chest. She avoided the scars. Not because he minded. But because she had been trained not to linger.
His breathing was steady and deep.
He didn't move when her hands traveled down, rinsing one side, then the other, circling beneath his arms. Her hair clung to her cheeks, steam curling around her temples.
Still, his eyes remained closed.
His arms draped like a throne around the tub.
He let her work.
And she did.
Her palms scrubbed across the ridges of his abdomen, slow, circular, methodical. He didn't tense. He never flinched. Not even when the cloth passed over old wounds.
She dipped it again, wrung it out, and scrubbed his thighs.
The water rippled between them.
Her breath came out in soft exhales as she worked, head bowed, knees folded under her in the tub as she shifted with grace that came only from repetition. There was no lust in it. No desire. Just function. Just survival dressed as service.
The only thing Yen did was tilt his head slightly back.
And whisper, low—barely audible over the soft slosh of water:
"Quiet hands."
Lily's fingers instantly slowed. She hadn't realized they'd been trembling.
She nodded. "Yes, my lord."
She rinsed the cloth. Wiped him again. The same spots. Until his skin gleamed under the water, pale against the gold-lit stone.
Her hands moved to his calves now. Then his feet. She scrubbed carefully, reverently. Like the bath itself was a prayer. Like if she did this well enough, he'd forget the dinner. The rice. The words about the child. Maybe even the bruises on her hips.
But she knew better.
He would remember everything.
She finished rinsing his leg, then sat back on her knees in the water, the cloth folded in both palms like an offering.
Yen opened his eyes.
He looked at her.
Not with softness.
Just assessment.
The kind of gaze you gave a blade after it had been sharpened. Cold. Detached. Checking for flaws.
"Your turn," he said simply.
She blinked once.
"My lord?"
He didn't repeat himself.
Just gestured faintly at the cloth she still held in her hands.
Wash yourself. Right there. In front of him.
Of course.
Of course.
She bowed her head once. "Yes, my lord."
Then slowly—slowly—she raised the cloth to her shoulder and began.
-----
He watched her the entire time until she was done.
As soon as Lily's hands left her skin, the cloth barely settling back into the basin, Yen stood.
The water rippled with his movement, cascading off the lines of his body like silver rainfall. He didn't glance down. He didn't wait.
He stepped past her, out of the tub with the grace of a man who never once worried about slipping. His hair clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding down his spine in measured trails. He didn't reach for a towel.
Lily followed.
She moved slower, careful not to splash as she rose, the water parting around her thighs, her waist, until the chill air hit her bare skin. She stepped out onto the marble floor, arms already reaching for the linens.
She dried him first.
Starting at his shoulders, she pressed the thick towel against his chest, his arms, his back. Methodical. The same way she scrubbed him. Careful not to drag too roughly. Careful not to touch too softly.
He didn't speak. Didn't shift.
He let her dry him like a statue—unmoving, indifferent.
Once his hair was gently wrung and the towel wrapped around his waist, he brushed her hands aside.
That was all the permission she needed to start drying herself.
By the time she finished, he was already gone—walking ahead into the bedchambers, his bare feet leaving faint wet prints on the floor.
The bedroom was dim, lit by a single oil lamp near the window. The fire had been stoked low again. Warm robes lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed—soft silk, midnight blue for him, pale ash-grey for her.
Yen reached for his robe without pause.
He shrugged it on, loose and effortless, and didn't bother fastening it tightly. It clung open around his chest, framing the sharp angles of his collarbones and the ridged muscles of his stomach. The belt was tied lazily at his hips, more decorative than functional.
He didn't sit on the bed.
He turned instead toward the side table, where a decanter of deep red wine waited beside two glasses.
He ignored the glasses.
He uncorked the bottle and drank straight from it.
Not in gulps.
In long, slow pulls—like someone savoring the quiet after carnage.
Lily dried her hair quickly, fingers combing through damp strands, eyes never once lifting from the floor. Then she dressed herself. Robe tied tight, sleeves pulled over her wrists.
She didn't speak.
She went to the bed, slipped beneath the covers, and lay on her side facing the far wall.
Not curled. Not tucked.
Just still.
Waiting.
Behind her, she could hear the soft glug of the wine bottle as Yen drank again. A chair creaked—just once—as he sat, draping one leg over the other. He didn't say a word. He didn't ask for her.
She stayed awake. In position. Waiting to see if he needed her body… or her silence.
The bed beneath her was warm, but nothing about this felt like rest.