Page 94 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“I’m aware,” he snapped. Then he let out a tense breath. “We’re wasting valuable time. Let’s just come back in three hours to meet with the Alchemist.”

“They’ll know something’s wrong if we don’t participate.” I headed toward one of the massage tables. “So if we’re stuck here, we might as well make the best of it.”

The heat from the coals warmed my skin as I removed my robe, leaving only my undergarments. I could feel Kazimir’s eyes on me, a tangible weight that sent a shiver down my spine.

Damn him. Even furious, I still wanted him.

I lay face down on the massage table, arranging a soft black towel over my lower half. “Are you going to join me, or are you going to stand there brooding the entire time?”

“I’ll pass,” he said stiffly.

“Suit yourself.”

Two attendants entered—different from the jellyfish enthusiast, thankfully. They were identical, with skin that shimmered and eyes that reflected light like a cat’s. Without speaking, they moved to the pit of coals and began selecting stones with metal tongs.

One approached my table while the other stood awkwardly looking at Kazimir.

“My husband will be observing today,” I said smoothly.

The attendant nodded and the other set to work, placing hot stones along my spine. The heat sank into my muscles, and I couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped me. It felt divine, the tension of the past twelve hours beginning to melt away.

Until Kazimir spoke.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

The attendant froze, a stone hovering inches above my shoulder blade.

“The stones should follow the meridian lines,” he said coldly, “not the spine.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Since when are you an expert on hot stone massage?”

“Since I studied with the fire monks of the Ashen Wastes.” He approached the table, radiating power and irritation. “Leave us,” he commanded the attendants. “I’ll handle this myself.”

They practically fled the room, the door closing behind them with a thud that echoed in the sudden silence. Kazimir selected one of the stones.

I propped myself up on my elbows, ready to give him a piece of my mind, but then he placed the stone on my shoulder, and… oh.

Oh.

The pressure was perfect, the heat radiating through layers of tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. He added another stone, then another, each placement deliberate and precise. When his hands touched my back, I nearly jumped off the table. Not from fear or anger, but from the electricity that shot through me at the contact.

“I didn’t know you studied with monks,” I said, my voice embarrassingly breathy.

His hands moved to my lower back, fingers pressing into knots of muscle with expert precision. “When I was looking for the artifact. The fire monks believe that true mastery of the self begins with understanding the body’s energy pathways. Mostly, it’s about the way the body channels magic.”

His touch was impersonal, clinical almost, but devastatingly effective. Each press of his fingers sent waves of pleasure-pain through my body, releasing tension and replacing it with a warm, liquid sensation. His dominion magic hummed faintly through his touch, not compelling but soothing, like a warm current flowing through my muscles. Hands worked lower, finding every ache, every pain, every spot that made me melt into the table.

This was Kazimir without words—taking care of me the only way he knew how when everything else between us was fractured.

We lapsed into silence, the only sound the occasional hiss from the coals and my own involuntary sighs as he worked magic with his hands. Despite everything, my body was responding to his touch. Desire pooled between my thighs, and I resisted the urge to squirm. I’d known Kaz was good at this—he’d given me massages before—but with all the heightened emotions between us, every touch felt like fire. I pressed my face into the table to muffle the completely inappropriate sound that wanted to escape.

This was not fair. We were fighting.

He must have sensed the change in my breathing, because his hands slowed, becoming less clinical and more exploratory. His fingers traced the curve of my spine, lingering at the sensitive spot at the base of my neck.

“Arabella,” he said, his voice rough.

“Don’t.” I cut him off, suddenly unable to bear whatever he was about to say. I wasn’t ready to talk about it, to hear his excuses or justifications. Not when the wound was still so raw. “Just… don’t.”