The bathwater stilled as Yelena approached, her movements quiet. She stopped a respectful distance from the tub's rim, her shadow falling across the water's surface.
"And the name?" she asked, her voice low. "You have confirmed the previous Lord Lucian is dead. What should I call you now?"
Gyeong tilted his head back against the cool porcelain, letting his eyes drift half-closed. He didn't need to think about it. "The name is Lucian. Titles can change, but the name must stay the same." His lips quirked.
A silence stretched over both of them. But Yelena didn't retreat. Instead, she took another step closer, her gray eyes scanning him with a new, intense curiosity. The rigidness in her posture had vanished, replaced by an investigative stillness, as if examining a curious artifact.
Lucian felt a spike of self-consciousness under that gaze. This scrutiny was new. "What?" he demanded, voice sharp.
Yelena's gaze didn't waver. She lowered her hand, her fingertip tracing the line of his jaw. The touch was light, yet startlingly intimate in the steam-thick air. His jaw was leaner now, the sharp angle more defined than his previously soft, round profile.
Lucian's hand shot up, water sloshing. He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful, stopping her finger mid-trace. "And what exactly," he said, his tone flat, "do you think you're doing?"
Yelena's composure cracked. A faint flush crept up her neck, stark against her pale skin. Her gaze quivered away, then back to his. She withdrew her hand slowly, letting her wrist rest in his grasp for a beat longer than necessary.
"He…" she started, her voice quieter. "Lucian, the boy before… he was whispered to be very pretty. Once. Before he… changed."
She pulled her hand back, clasping it to her chest. "I… was curious to see if any of that remained." She gave a small, stiff shrug, the mask of the disciplined maid briefly overtaking the flustered woman.
Lucian blinked, his hand still tingling from where her wrist had been. He looked down at her, taking in the grime and dust caking her uniform, the dark streaks of goblin blood that had dried on her sleeve. She was as filthy as he was, maybe more so, given she'd been clearing the tunnels.
"Right," Lucian said, clearing his throat. He gestured vaguely toward the tub with his free hand, "There's enough space left. Just don't make it weird."
Yelena's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. For a long second, she just stared, the flush on her neck deepening to a vivid crimson. She swallowed, the motion visible in her throat.
"I… see," she managed, her voice tight. "And your definition of 'weird'?"
"Just… get in. Or don't. The offer's there." He crossed his arms, trying for nonchalance, feeling anything but.
Without another word, Yelena turned her back to him. The sound of buckles and leather followed. Lucian forced himself to look away, focusing on the many cracks in the bathroom tile.
He heard the soft splash as she stepped in, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The silence that followed was heavy as the water shifted again. Lucian risked a glance, his eyes darting sideways without moving his head.
Yelena was submerged up to her shoulders, her gray hair darkened by water and clinging to her neck.
Yelena looked at him, her expression utterly blank. The water lapped at her collarbone.
"It is fine if you look," she said, her voice steady despite the steam clouding around them. "We need to get cleaned right. Do not be shy."
Lucian felt the heat rise in his cheeks, a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. He forced a scoff, his voice cracking only slightly. "You're a pervert."
Yelena's movements paused. She looked back again, a single wet strand of hair stuck to her temple. Her gray eyes held no anger, only confusion.
"You are the one who proposed for me to join you," she stated plainly, as if reminding him of a simple fact.
"You're still a pervert." He crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive gesture.
She tilted her head. "You likely do not even know the meaning of that word."
Lucian's jaw tightened. He pulled his gaze away from her, fixing it stubbornly on the wall tiles. "Pervert," he muttered, the word feeling flimsy on his tongue.
"Interesting," Yelena murmured. The water sloshed louder as she moved. "And what does a pervert do, exactly?"
Lucian didn't answer. He heard her move through the water, the sound drawing nearer. He kept his eyes locked on the cracks in the tile, counting them to avoid looking down.
"Perhaps this," Yelena said, her voice suddenly much closer, right beside his ear.
A hand landed on his shoulder. She didn't just lean in; she used his shoulder as leverage to rise. Water streamed off her, and she pulled herself partially out of the tub, her torso clearing the surface. She was now standing over him, looking down. The heavy curtain of wet, gray hair fell forward, framing a face devoid of emotion, but the soft, pale curves of her breasts were fully exposed to his line of sight, inches from his face. She didn't shy away. She held the position, studying his reaction with curiosity. "Is this," she asked, "what a pervert does?"
Lucian saw it, the subtle tension in her jaw, the way her pulse thrummed visibly in her neck. Yelena's act of detachment was a performance, and a poor one at that. Her eyes, which had been cool and assessing moments ago, now darted away from his, then back again, searching.
Slowly, Lucian lifted a hand from the water. His fingertip, wet and cold, brushed against the soft, raised tip of her breast. He pressed gently.
Yelena's reaction was instantaneous and undignified. A sharp yelp escaped her, and her composure shattered. She pitched forward, her balance lost, and landed heavily against him. Her forehead came to rest in the crook of his neck, her damp hair plastering against his skin. The water sloshed violently.
"You're doing rather poorly for a pervert," Lucian murmured, his voice low next to her ear.
He didn't wait for a reply. His finger, moved from her chest to the line of her jaw. He traced it upwards, feeling the sharp edge of bone beneath her skin. Her breath hitched.
"You know," he said, his tone casual despite the proximity. "In about a month, I'm supposed to marry Lady Uzume, right?." His finger stopped at the hinge of her jaw. "It's quite bold of you to jump on someone future husband."
Yelena pushed herself up slightly, creating a small space between them. Her face was flushed, the color high on her cheeks. "I got carried away," she stated, her voice clipped. She moved to pull away entirely.
Lucian's hands moved faster. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, anchoring her to the spot.
She covered her mouth with one hand, as if to stifle any sound, but her eyes were wide over her knuckles.
"You act all cold," Lucian whispered, his thumb stroking the dip of her waist. "All disciplined." He leaned in, his lips hovering just above the wet skin of her neck. "But you're rather easily flustered."
"It's not true," Yelena breathed.
Lucian's lips met the pulse point on her neck. The skin was fever-warm, slick with bathwater and sweat. He kissed her there, feeling the frantic beat against his mouth.
Yelena gasped. One of her hands left her mouth, fingers threading desperately through his golden hair, gripping tight as if for anchor.
Lucian moved up, his lips grazing the sharp line of her jaw. Yelena's fingers tightened in his hair. As his mouth drifted closer to hers, she made a small, involuntary noise and pushed against his chest. Not a shove, but a firm press that sent him back against the cool porcelain of the tub. Water sloshed over the rim.
He relaxed into the tub, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Too much?" he asked.
Yelena didn't answer. Her eyes darted frantically around the small space, as if looking for an escape route. She was overwhelmed, the rigid composure that usually defined her completely shattered. A heat radiated from her skin that had nothing to do with the bathwater.
She brought both hands up, pressing her palms against her flaming cheeks as if to cool them. "Damn it," she whispered, a curse choked with frustration.
Lucian, watching from his position beneath her, tilted his head. His gaze traveled from her disheveled hair to the vulnerable curve of her neck. "You know," he murmured, a lazy smirk touching his lips. "You're really pretty like this."
Yelena froze. The blush on her face deepened to a crimson that rivaled a tomato, staining her neck and ears. She emitted a high-pitched, strangled squeak, her voice cracking on the syllable. "I-I am not!" she protested, the denial trembling. Her hand, which had been covering her face, dropped to his chest. She pressed her palm flat against his skin, as if to physically stop the compliment from reaching her.
She seemed utterly unprepared for the directness of his words. Her composure, usually a fortress, was collapsing under a simple statement. Overwhelmed, she lowered her head, the crown of her skull coming to rest on his sternum. She lay fully against him, the length of her body pressing into the water.
"It's… it's too much," she whimpered softly, the sound muffled against his chest. Her shoulders shook with the force of her suppressed reaction.
Lucian found himself staring at the top of her head, at the damp, gray strands. He had never seen the cold, disciplined maid so… undone. So human. He raised a hand, his fingers tentative at first, then settling into a steady, rhythmic pat on her hair. The motion was oddly calming, both for her and for him.
"Yeah," he said, his voice quiet. "Maybe we both got carried away."