He moved to her shoulders next, rubbing the cleansing oil into skin that was too soft, too smooth, so different from fur. Her muscles were knotted beneath his touch—tension she probably didn’t even know she carried.
“Relax.”
“I can’t.” Her voice came out strained. “This is—”
“Necessary.” He worked at a particularly stubborn knot near her spine. “Your body has been through trauma. It needs care whether you want to admit it or not.”
She fell silent. Let him work.
The intimacy of it settled over him like a weight. He’d never done this for anyone. Never wanted to. The females who’d warmed his bed over the years had been diversions, nothing more—bodies to satisfy urges that interfered with ruling.
This was different. This wasn’t about satisfaction or release. This was aboutcare. About ensuring she survived, thrived, remainedhis.
The beast in his chest purred with satisfaction.
When he’d cleaned her thoroughly—arms, back, the curve of her neck—he helped her rise from the pool. Wrapped her in drying cloths that were too large for her frame, swaddling her like a pup.
“You can manage the rest yourself?” He stepped back, putting necessary distance between them. “The areas I…didn’t address?”
Color crept into her cheeks despite exhaustion. “Yes.”
He turned his back, giving her privacy for the moments it took to complete her cleansing. When she touched his arm—a brief brush of fingers against fur—he faced her again.
She stood wrapped in the drying cloth, looking smaller than ever. Younger. Despite everything, despite the sharp mind and sharper tongue, she was still sofragile.
“Thank you.” The words came out quiet. “For…I didn’t want to admit I needed help.”
“I know.” He guided her back toward the main chamber, toward the nest of furs that awaited. “You’re stubborn. It’s exhausting.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
He didn’t understand the reference, but her tone conveyed the meaning well enough.
Fresh sleeping clothes waited on the bed—another shift, similar to the one she’d worn before, soft and warm and appropriately sized. He’d sent for them earlier, while she’d been unconscious in the medical bay. Planning ahead for a moment he’d hoped would come.
She dressed with his back turned, her movements audible in the quiet chamber. Fabric rustling. Small sounds of effort as she struggled with fastenings her tired fingers couldn’t quite manage.
“Done.” Her voice carried resignation.
Sylas turned. She’d made it onto the bed, curled among furs that swallowed her completely. Only her face remained visible—pale and drawn, eyes already closing.
He should leave her to sleep. Should return to his duties, to the council that would want reports on the installation, to the politics that never stopped churning beneath the surface of his rule.
Instead, he stripped off his own clothing. Settled onto the bed beside her.
Her eyes flew open. “What are you—”
“Sleeping.” He arranged himself near her—not touching, but close enough that he could reach her in an instant. “This is my nest. I sleep here.”
“And me?”
“You sleep here too. Tonight.” His voice dropped to something that wasn’t quite a growl. “Where I can ensure no one disturbs your recovery. Where I can hear if your breathing changes or your heart rate spikes or you show any sign of the complications Yarx warned might develop.”
“You’re afraid I’ll die in my sleep?”
“I’m ensuring you don’t.” He pulled the topmost fur over both of them, creating a cocoon of warmth. “The fortress isn’t safe tonight. The installation drew attention. My rivals will be calculating, planning, looking for weaknesses.”
“I’m a weakness.”