She sat there, looking up at him, and the candlelight caught the sharp angles of her face, the high cheekbones, the dark hair that had escaped its braid and curled damp at her temples.
"Turn around," she said.
He did. He heard the rustle of fabric behind him, the soft hitch of her breath as she worked the dress over her head. He kept his eyes fixed on the fogged window, giving her the privacy she’d asked for, even as his pulse hammered a rhythm he couldn’t quiet.
"Okay."
He turned back. She was wrapped in a thin towel, her arms crossed over her chest, her legs bare beneath it. Her skin was pale in the candlelight, the muscles of her thighs softer than they should have been, the evidence of what she’d lost written plainly on her body. She looked, for the first time since he’d met her, uncertain.
"Don’t stare," she said, but there was no bite in it.
"I’m not staring." He was staring. He couldn’t help it. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with polish or presentation—beautiful in the way a wound was beautiful, the kind of thing that made you want to look closer even when you knew you shouldn’t.
He knelt in front of her, bringing himself to her eye level. The towel had slipped at one shoulder, and he reached up without thinking, adjusting it, his fingers brushing the warm skin of her collarbone. She sucked in a breath.
"Emeric."
"Isolde."
"You’re not making this easier."
"Good."
She blinked at that, the simple admission of intent—and something in her expression shifted. Not guarded, not anymore. Something else. Something that looked, unexpectedly, like permission.
"Help me into the water," she said.
He rose, offering his arm. She took it, and he lifted her, the towel falling away as he did, and he caught the barest glimpse of her before she sank into the steam. Her back to him, the curve of her spine, the sharp jut of her shoulder blades, the pale skin disappearing into water that was suddenly, impossibly, the most interesting thing in the room.
She gasped softly as the heat met her skin, her hands gripping the rim of the tub. The water lapped at her collarbones, steam rising around her face, and she let her head fall back against the copper rim, eyes closing.
"This was a good idea," she murmured.
He didn’t answer. He was watching the water move around her, the way it clung to her skin, the way her breath had gone slow and deep as the heat worked its way into her muscles.
"Now you," she said, without opening her eyes.
"What."
"You didn’t think you were just going to stand there and watch, did you?" A small smile curved her mouth. "That seems unfair."
He swallowed. "I wasn’t—I didn’t assume—"
"You assumed I’d let you do all the work and not return the favor?" She opened her eyes then, fixing him with a look that was half challenge, half invitation. "I’m not that cruel. Get in."
"I’ll soak the floor—"
"You’ll get in the water, Emeric. That’s what tubs are for."
He hesitated, and she watched him with that steady, assessing gaze, the one that saw straight through every excuse he’d ever made. He could feel himself being weighed, measured, found wanting in the way that mattered most.
Then she reached up and caught his hand, her fingers cool and wet against his palm.
"Please," she said.
And that one word—that small, unexpected surrender—broke whatever resistance he’d been trying to hold together.
He pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric catching on his shoulders, not caring where it landed. His trousers followed, quick and unceremonious, and he stepped into the tub before he could think too hard about what he was doing.
The water was hot, almost too hot, and it rose around him as he settled across from her, knees bumping hers under the surface. The copper was smooth against his back, and he let out a breath.
"That’s better," she said softly. Her eyes traveled over him—the scars on his chest from the rift, the bruises still fading on his ribs, the shape of his shoulders in the candlelight. "You look like you’ve been through something."
"I have. You." He said it without thinking, and the words hung in the steam between them.
She didn’t look away. Her hand found his under the water, fingers threading through his, a small, deliberate anchor.
"Wash me," she said. Not a request. Not quite a demand. Something in between—something that gave him the room to choose his own next move.
He reached for the soap, a simple bar he’d had brought from the market, pale and unscented. He worked it between his hands until it foamed, and then he reached for her.
He started with her shoulders, his soap-slick hands sliding over the curve of them, the sharp line of her collarbones. She closed her eyes, her head falling back again, a soft sound escaping her throat. The steam curled around them, and the candle flickered, and the world outside this room ceased to exist.
"You’re tense," he murmured, working his thumbs into the knot at the base of her neck.
"I wonder why." Her voice was breathy, strained. "I’m being bathed by my husband of eleven days, who I barely know, and I’m—" She broke off, swallowing.
"You’re what?"
"I’m not afraid," she said, and the words came out like a confession. "That’s what’s strange. I should be afraid. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. And yet."
"And yet."
She opened her eyes. The candlelight caught something in them—vulnerability, want, the shape of a trust she hadn’t meant to give him.
"Keep going," she said.
He washed her arms next, working the soap down the length of them, his hands following the pale skin. Her wrists were slender in his grip, the bones delicate beneath the surface, and he was careful, so careful, as if she might break if he pressed too hard.
"I won’t break," she said, as if reading his mind. "I’ve been broken already. Whatever’s left is stronger than it looks."
"You’re not broken." He said with more force than he intended before softening.
He lifted her arm, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her pulse fluttered under his lips, fast and unsteady. "I’m still going to be careful."
"That’s your choice." Her voice had gone thick. "I’m not going to stop you."