His eyes fluttered open, a twitch passing through his brow.
“Up, my king. I must attend to you—”
He blinked, his gaze heavy with disinterest.
“—It’s my duty.”
A deep shudder wracked his body, followed by a breath that hissed out through clenched teeth. The wince made my chest tighten, but he slowly rose to his feet.
“I swear, if you’re injured under all this grime…” I muttered, fingers already working at the buckles on his pauldrons. My words lacked weight. What could I do? Call a healer and stutter through an explanation of how I knew Kallias was hurt?
The pauldron slid free. I paused, realizing I should’ve removed the vambraces first. Cursing under my breath, I adjusted my grip and tackled his gauntlet.
His armor was a chore I would gladly leave to Greaves next time. So many buckles, latches, pieces—each more stubborn than the last. Kallias would not assist, no matter how spiteful my complaints were.
Apparently, this was part of the ritual.
I set the pieces aside on the desk, clearing his arms and shoulders. Beneath the armor, the hard padding was soaked with dried blood, stiff against my touch.
“And I suppose you won’t help with this, either?” I huffed.
His mouth curled in amusement, a small reward for my persistence.
I gripped the hem of his padded tunic, tugged it free of his belt, and rolled it up. The sight of his muscled abs made my stomach flutter. I squashed them, then pulled it higher. This would only be about washing.
He lifted his hands, wincing with a quiet hiss. Worry snagged at my chest as I stepped closer, ready to help. He doubled over with a low groan, and I seized the opportunity to pull the tunic off. It fell to the floor with a damp slap, blood from the beast still clinging to its fabric.
His face twisted in pain as he straightened. I slipped two fingers into his trousers, earning a startled grunt as I yanked him away from the desk. When he followed, I let go, circling around him with a deliberate step.
A streak of red marred his spine, thick as my hand. It wasn’t a cut but a bruise, as though he’d been slammed into a tree. I traced the damaged skin with my finger, my eyes following the map of scars etched across his back and shoulders. He shivered, a small tremor under my touch, and I savored the way he remained still, vulnerable.
A double-edged sword for him.
Satisfied that he wasn’t bleeding out and nothing seemed broken, I stepped around him and sank to my knees.
I noticed how his body stiffened, but didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, I bent over, reaching for the armor protecting his boots. When my hands encircled his thigh to loosen the cuisses, the room was suffocating, the heat rising with each ripple of his muscles beneath my touch.
He shifted, flexing the muscles under my palms. I paused, my glare meeting his as his darkened gaze locked with mine, crossing the expanse of his muscled stomach.
My fingers slipped on the clasp, frustration tightening my chest. I forced a calm breath. This was my choice. He came back to me, and I would honor that.
The buckle gave way. I exhaled as I set it aside, retrieving the cloth from the bucket. I ignored his unrelenting stare as I rose. Hunger smoldered in his eyes, a reflection of a man starved for something I wouldn’t give.
I couldn’t. He didn’t want that from me.
Water dripped from the scar across his chest, the same one that haunted the sketches I’d made of him. The innocence of those drawings seemed so distant, the contrast stark between then and now. Scythe had been taken. I wasn’t the same woman anymore.
I washed the blood and death from him. Each sweep of my hand, every stroke across his skin, brought him closer to me. His back was filthy, and I stroked his broad shoulders, easing the dirt away. When I reached the wound, I was gentle, cautious. He stiffened, but said nothing.
I worked my way to his chest, dragging the cloth below his navel. His stomach clenched, and he held his breath as I lingered. My finger traced the space abovehis belt buckle, a soft caress that made his hand snap out, closing around my wrist. His grip didn’t crush, just prevented me from going further.
The damp rag hung between us, cold against the heat of his skin. I tilted my head back to meet his gaze, inches away. My blood thrummed in my veins, pulsing with the proximity. His jaw flexed, and a smirk crept onto my lips.
There was power in taunting him. A wonderful, awful power.
His grip on my wrist pulled me closer. I stumbled, body pressing against his, hands trapped between us. His gaze never wavered, a storm of conflict swirling behind his eyes—just as fierce as the battle with the mammoth.
Fighting a beast was one thing. Confronting the monster inside was something else entirely.
