I can’t spare her the exposure, but maybe I can annoy her enough to distract her. “You look like shit.”
“If I’d known you’d be kidnapping me, I’d have freshened up my make up.” She reaches for the pitcher of warm water and I pull it out of reach.
“Can you stop being an ass for a quarter hour?” she hisses quietly.
“Don’t know. Never tried it before.” I lift the pitcher over her head and tip it slowly, letting the warm water cascade over herhair and shoulders, rinsing away the worst of grit and blood. “Don’t move.”
For once, the girl obeys, sitting very still, her back straight, chin lifted, refusing to flinch even when the chill of the air replaces the steam. But even she can’t control the shivering, which runs in fine tremors through her limbs. With her naked before me, it’s impossible to ignore the delicate scattering of freckles on her shoulders, faint silvery lines of old scars, and—of most interest to my lower body—the shy bushel of auburn curls peeking from between her thighs. She is both fragile and indomitable, a living contradiction that makes my blood sing.
I palm the cake of soap, working it into a thick lather between my palms, then smooth it across her collarbone and the slender arch of her neck.
Rowan’s breath hitches when my hands linger there, at her nape, my thumbs stroking slow circles behind her ears until the dirt and sweat grudgingly give way to pale, luminous skin. Wringing out the linen cloth, I trail it along the curve of her shoulder, down the line of her arm, and across her ribs, where bruises—both fresh purple and older deep yellow—dress her skin. I brush the pad of my finger over the abused flesh.
“How much does it hurt?” I ask, voice low. I mean the query in earnest but it still comes out like a demand.
Her hands tighten on the boulder. “It doesn’t.”
“Lying is no way to start a marriage."
She growls lightly, showing her teeth.
I chuckle.
Her scowl deepens.
I move closer, my knees brushing the stone she sits on. “We have an audience to entertain,” I whisper into her ear.
“You want to juggle first or should I?”
Sending a small prayer up to whichever god might be listening—never hurts to hedge one’s bets before going intolethal combat—I raise her hand to my lips and kiss each knuckle in the kind of nauseating infatuation I’ve seen idiots lose themselves in.
Her fingers curl against mine, outwardly delighted and privately sinking her nails into my skin. Nails that have been uncut for a very long time.
“Kittens have claws.” I murmur, nipping her earlobe—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to send a flush through her wet, naked body. Just like that, my world narrows to the scent of her: honey and sharp citrus, wild and defiant.
Rowan closes her eyes, lashes dark and spiked with water drops, lips parted as she first exhales and grits her teeth. And her thighs. “This would be a good time to have your shadows do something useful.”
“On the contrary. We are making a point to the crowd.” I gather her hair in my hands with deliberate slowness and knead the soap thuds into auburn waves. The ones on her head, not between he thighs. Because I’m only partially suicidal.
Beneath the surface of the water, Ainsley aims her foot into my balls.
I drop my hand to her breast, my thumb right over her nipple. “Would you like to try that again?” I murmur.
Her body stills at once, but not before I scent the sharp whiff of her arousal.
I grin wickedly.
She flinches. It’s a small movement, unseen by anyone on shore, but plain enough for me.
My amusement fades. “It’s just your body reacting to touch,” I say roughly. Quietly. “It’s just a reflex. Your body is doing what it's meant to. Nothing more. I’m under no illusion that you’ve changed your mind about wanting to fillet me. So don’t worry about it, understand?” I squeeze her nipple, increasing the pressure until she nods.
I sigh. “Look, this show of ours will have to get worse before it gets better, and I need to know you are alright with that.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes.” I say with full conviction. Because there is no way on this side of Mors or beyond that I’m going to force this. “If you can’t bear to tolerate my touch, we will find another way.”
“It’s fine.”
