“And if you collapse? Hit your head on the stone? Drown in water barely deep enough to cover your chest?” He shook his head. “I’ve already watched you nearly die once today. I won’t risk it again.”
“So what—you’ll just strip me down and scrub me like I’m one of your hounds?”
The image her words conjured sent heat flickering through his veins. He pushed it down with practiced control.
“You’re my pet.” The words came out flat. Final. “That means you’re my responsibility. A good master cares for what belongs to him—especially when that possession has exhausted itself serving his interests.” He tilted his head. “You found that core. You guided us through the storm-woods. You nearly destroyed yourself saving my people’s defenses. The least I can do is ensure you don’t die from stubbornness in my bathing chamber.”
Something shifted in her expression. The defiance didn’t fade—it never seemed to fade completely—but resignation crept in around its edges.
“Fine.” The word came out bitter. “But if you—”
“I’ll be clinical.” He rose, offering her a hand. “Consider it medical attention. Nothing more.”
She didn’t take his hand. Instead, she struggled to her feet on her own, swaying dangerously before he caught her elbow.
Stubborn female.
The bathing chamber was warm, steam rising from pools carved directly into the volcanic rock. Blue lighting glowed from crystals embedded in the ceiling, softer here than in the corridors. More intimate.
He guided her to a low bench near the smallest pool—a basin designed for washing rather than soaking. Water flowed continuously through it, fed by vents that kept the temperature constant.
Sylas reached for her cloak first. His movements were deliberate, unhurried as he unfastened it at her throat and drew the fabric from her shoulders. It slipped away easily, leaving her more exposed than before.
His hands stilled for a fraction of a moment—something unreadable passing through his expression—before he stepped back.
“Can you remove the tunic yourself?”
Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings. Stopped. Started again.
“No.” The admission cost her. He could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way she refused to meet his eyes.
Sylas moved behind her, claws working the laces with careful precision. The fabric loosened, then fell away.
Her back was a canvas of bruises. Old ones fading to yellow at the edges; newer ones still purple and dark. The crash, probably. Or the aftermath. Damage her species couldn’t heal as quickly as his own.
His beast snarled at the sight.
Mine. Hurt. Fix it.
He eased the leggings down next, clinical as promised, keeping his attention focused on the task rather than the body beneath. She was too thin. Too fragile. Too human.
And she smelled like Frosted Tears and exhaustion and something else—something sweet beneath the surface that made his pulse quicken.
“Into the pool.”
She stepped in on her own, sinking into water that reached her waist. A small victory, that independence. He let her have it.
He retrieved cleansing oils from the shelf near the basin—formulated for Yzefrxyl fur but gentle enough for human skin, according to Yarx’s notes on the species. The healer had prepared a file when Ryxin first claimed his pet. Sylas had studied it more thoroughly than he’d admitted.
“Lean back.”
She did, reluctantly, and he poured warm water over her hair. The golden strands darkened, clinging to her skull, and her scent intensified—Frosted Tears blooming through the steam.
His claws moved through her hair with care he hadn’t known he possessed. Massaging the oil into her scalp, working it through tangles, rinsing until the water ran clear.
She made a small sound. Not quite pleasure. Not quite pain. Something in between that made heat coil low in his belly.
Control.He forced himself to focus on the task. Clinical. Medical. Nothing more.