Eva woke to the ache.
It lived in every muscle, a deep, pulsing soreness that made even breathing deliberate. Her throat was dry, her mouth bitter with the taste of sleep and copper. Sweat dampened her skin, cooling under the faint breeze slipping through the chamber.
When she tried to move, her body protested. Her neck throbbed; her thighs burned. Even the small muscles low in her belly clenched in memory. She blinked into the dark, disoriented. The bed was vast, tangled in silk sheets—and empty.
Lucarion was gone.
A dull throb started behind her eyes. She pushed herself up on her elbows, groaning when her vision swam. The room tilted; she pressed her fingers to her temples, waiting for her heart to remember its rhythm. A few deep breaths steadied her enough to sit, though the effort made her navel ache sharply beneath her palm.
When she finally managed to scoot toward the edge of the bed, arms reached for her.
Strong, unyielding. She gasped as the ground vanished beneath her and her body met solid warmth—muscle and scent and steady breath.
She stiffened instinctively.
"Easy," came his voice, low against her ear. "You'll fall if you try that alone."
Lucarion.
He held her easily, her body fitting against his chest as though it belonged there. The dizziness returned, softer this time, threaded with something that wasn't entirely discomfort. His scent filled her—familiar, grounding—though tinged with something sharp, rich, almost foreign.
She murmured against his skin, voice rough. "You smell different."
"I drew a bath," he said. "For the soreness."
She hummed. "Mm. Kind of you."
Her head rested against his shoulder. Her hand traced small, slow shapes across his chest—circles, lines, something to anchor her mind while her body floated in exhaustion.
Lucarion looked down, one brow lifting. "Since when are you this cooperative?"
Her lips curved faintly. "You're carrying me. Why would I complain?"
"Not even a 'put me down, I'm too heavy'?"
She snorted softly, eyes meeting his. "Can you imagine? Me accepting a man too weak to carry me?"
He laughed—low, warm, unguarded. "But you are a whole lot of woman, Eva."
Her smile deepened. She rested her head again, finger resuming its idle path over his skin. "That is precisely why a big, strong vampire was the chosen one," she murmured. "Divine wisdom."
Lucarion carried her through the arched doorway into the adjoining chamber. Steam drifted upward, soft and curling in the low light, carrying the faint scent of herbs and salt. The marble bath waited, its surface shimmering gold under flickering candle flames.
He knelt by the edge and lowered her carefully, hands steady beneath her. The first touch of warmth drew a soft hiss from her; her body tensed, a shiver crossing her shoulders as the water met the tenderness between her thighs.
He stilled instantly, gaze flicking to her face.
"It's fine," she murmured, voice breathy. "Just… hot."
Slowly, he eased her down until the water embraced her. Her breath came easier then, tension in her limbs unwinding as heat seeped in. Droplets clung to her skin, catching light like scattered stars.
Lucarion straightened. "I may have…" His voice softened, low enough to blend with the whisper of the water. "…been less gentle than I intended."
She cracked one eye open, gaze sliding up to his, mouth curving in faint amusement. "You think?"
His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile tugging at them. "You'll forgive my enthusiasm, then."
Her lashes lowered again, corner of her mouth curling as she sank deeper into the warmth. "Don't apologize," she murmured, the tease soft but pointed. "It's unbecoming."
He huffed a quiet laugh—a sound that seemed to pull the weight from the air. "Duly noted," he said, letting his robe fall soundlessly to the floor. The water called, and he slipped in beside her.
The tub was wide enough for both, marble rim deep and smooth. He sank in until the water reached his chest, leaning back, arms along the edge. Steam drifted lazily, curling in diffused ribbons around them. Shadows flickered as the candlelight danced across the water's surface.
He watched her settle back, water lapping gently around her shoulders. Her eyes closed, long lashes brushing her cheeks, and he allowed a careful breath, the space between them charged with quiet attention.
He noted the way her skin glimmered, each droplet catching gold and shadow. Scars marked her arms, shoulders, torso, and legs—faint in places, deeper in others—silent testimony to battles fought and survived. Even as she rested, strength lingered beneath her soft curves.
"Thirsty?" he asked softly, nodding toward the small table at the rim of the tub. A carafe of water and sliced fruit awaited.
Her eyes fluttered open, amber catching the candlelight. She nodded, voice hoarse. "Very."
He guided the glass to her lips with one hand, the other resting along the rim. She drank deeply, tilting her head back slightly, letting the cool liquid chase dryness from her throat. He noted the subtle shiver as she swallowed.
When she set the glass down, she leaned back, eyes closed, breathing in warmth and the faint scent of herbs. His gaze drifted to the nearly healed wound at her neck, and a low hum escaped him. In a few hours, they would have to reopen it. The thought thrilled and restrained him.
"You slept restlessly," he said, voice careful. "Were there nightmares?"
She sighed, long and low, pressing a hand to the nape of her neck. "Heavy dreams," she murmured. "Fragments, mostly."
He leaned a fraction closer, eyes tracing the subtle tremor at her jaw. "Was it the first time?"
Her lashes lifted slightly. "No. They've been coming for a while."
"How long?"
She gave a faint shrug, gaze distant. "A handful of nights. They don't stay—just leave a weight behind."
He watched her, expression unreadable, the slow mist curling between them. "Dreams often remember what we choose to forget," he said softly.
A flicker crossed her face—something between recognition and denial. "If that's true, then my mind is crueler than I thought."
"You can tell me," he said finally, voice low, coaxing but never prying. "Whatever it was, it matters not. Only your truth."
She shifted, turning onto her side to face him. Her head rested on the arm he draped over the rim. Steam softened the light, gold bending into haze.
"I… dream of fire, a crown" she whispered. "Of falling. Of everything spinning, and not being able to stop it."
He let the words settle before asking, quietly, "And when you wake—how do they leave you?"
She hesitated. "As if I've been running," she said at last. "As if something followed me out of them."
He felt the faint weight of her head against his arm, the fragile rhythm of her pulse through his skin.
There were truths he could read in bodies—the language of blood and fear and want—but dreams eluded even him. Still, something in her words lingered, uneasy, as though she spoke of more than sleep.
His fingers drifted through her hair, slow, deliberate. "You are safe here," he murmured—a vow wrapped in shadow and warmth. "Nothing will spin you away while I am near.
She closed her eyes again, a faint exhalation slipping past her lips as the warmth of the water and his touch settled into her limbs. A soft, contented sound escaped her, and he allowed himself to follow the gentle tilt of her head, fingers combing through her hair with slow, careful reverence.
His gaze traveled over her form: the rise and fall of her bare chest beneath the cascade of her hair, the way her waist curved inward before the steep, elegant sweep of her hips, the long line of her legs, strong and fluid beneath the water, down to the delicate arch of her feet. Scars caught light as she shifted, reminders of her battles and endurance.
The quiet stretched, thick with unspoken understanding, until she murmured, teasing, threading exhaustion with mischief, "You're watching me very closely."
He let a thin, shadowed smile tug at his lips. "I cannot help it," he admitted. "It is impossible to look away."
As if in response, her stomach growled impatiently, making them chuckle. She lifted her hand toward the small table at the rim. A variety of cut fruit waited.
"Allow me," Lucarion said, voice low, teasing. He selected a slice of orange and offered it to her lips. She accepted, juice bursting sweet and cool across her tongue.
She hummed in satisfaction. "Orange is my second favorite," she murmured.
He tilted his head. "And the first?"
She smiled faintly, eyes flicking to the table. "Actually… a mix."
She turned fully toward the small table, and he let his hand slip from her hair, resting along the rim, fingers tracing idle ripples in the water.
She rose onto her knees. Candlelight slid over her back, muscles shifting beneath skin. She leaned forward, reaching for fruit, scents mingling with salt and heat.
Lucarion's attention never strayed.
She lifted the first piece—a slice of ripe pineapple—to his lips. He accepted it silently, eyes fixed on the droplet sliding down her wrist.
Then she offered a strawberry; his gaze lowered, drawn by her breath and the water gliding over her belly.
When she reached for the mango, the air tightened. She brought the golden slice to his mouth; his lips brushed her fingers. A bead of juice clung to her thumb; she lifted it to her mouth, tongue flicking lightly. Then, turning back to the table, she reached for another piece, unhurried, as if unaware of the tension left in her wake.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe. The world narrowed to the slow pulse beneath her skin, to fruit, salt, and woman. Hunger stirred—not the kind that drew blood, but the one hollowing the chest, aching behind the ribs. He told himself not to move, not to reach. She needed rest.
And yet—his mind betrayed him.
He saw her as she had been the first time he found her: a wild thing in chains, bronze hair tangled, eyes bright with hate. She had glared at him through blood and defiance, a lioness cornered, mutilating herself rather than submitting. Unbreakable. Untamable.
That wild feline had not vanished. She was here now, moving with the same deliberate grace of a content predator. Battle scars catching the light as she fed him fruit, the tilt of her head, the curve of her neck, the slow, teasing motions of her hands—everything radiated quiet, potent power. Each gesture claimed him, tethering him to her without a word.
Was she aware of it? Of the hold she had over him?
A smoldering tension wound through his lower belly, rising in slow, insistent burn. Every nerve alive to her. He traced her mouth, pulse, hands, the curve of her spine, arc of legs—reminding himself: not to move. Let her rest. Let her eat.
The silence stretched—thin, trembling, alive.
"Did you like it?" she rasped playfully, turning her gaze back to him.
His eyes locked on hers. She shivered under the weight of his gaze, a tremor tracing down her spine.