He nodded. “Eventually.”
That was a relief.
Until he turned in the small stall, and I was suddenly at eye level with the wound in his chest.
My lips parted as I saw that the wound had shrunk again, this time to about the size of a small golden coin. Most of the blood had washed away, except for a few patches here and there, but there was this . . . I squinted. There were these tiny whitish dots scattered about his chest and his stomach—
I didn’t let myself look farther as he shifted slightly. More of the lukewarm water reached me. “What is . . . coming out of your skin? Is it the hemlock?”
“Most of that is gone now,” he said. “You’re seeing the aftereffects of what a lunea blade does. Once the blade hits our flesh, it too acts as a poison. It eats away, reaching our blood, and then . . . burns us from the inside, much like a fever would a mortal. My body is pushing it out.”
“Oh,” I whispered, somewhat fascinated and disturbed by it. By all of this. Everything felt too surreal. The conversation I overheard and the mad flight into the city. Discovering that it was him my intuition had guided me to. Being in the shower with him. . . . His body.
I’d seen a lot of naked men in various different situations. Some like Grady, whose frame was honed from training and handling a sword, and others who were softer than myself, and some even like Claude, who was naturally slender. But this lord was . . . he was different.
Slowly, I lifted my gaze to his. His eyes . . . They were definitely regenerated, and exactly how I remembered them. A burst of swirling blue, green, and brown. They were so strange and so beautiful. I glanced over his features. The bruising had nearly all faded from his face. That wasn’t the only thing now absent.
“The markings on your face,” I said, brows furrowing. “They’re gone.”
His head tilted slightly. “Markings? I’m not sure of what you speak.”
“You . . . you had these marks on your face, along your jaw and temple. Looked like a tattoo,” I told him. “But it appeared to come from within your skin.”
The colors of his irises slowed, then stilled. “I believe you’ve mistaken what you saw,” he said, chin dipping. “It must’ve been blood or dirt.”
“Maybe.” Tiny goose bumps appeared on my flesh, responding to the sudden coolness of the bathing chamber. I took a nervous step back. “I think— ”
“Will you touch me?” he asked.
The breath I took went nowhere as my gaze shot back to his. “What?”
“To continue to bathe me,” he clarified, thick lashes lowered. “I find myself thoroughly enjoying this.” There was a pause. “And I believe you also enjoy it.”
I was thoroughly enjoying this— touching him. I swallowed as I stood there. Strands of wet hair had slipped free, clinging to my cheeks as my grip on the soap tightened. Aiding him didn’t seem all that necessary at this point. His voice was stronger. Based on the rise and fall of his chest and how he was taking fewer breaks between his words, his breathing was no longer labored. He could likely finish cleaning himself, especially if he was capable of thoroughly enjoying this.
But I . . . I was . . . reckless, I was more than a little foolish, and I had an extremely long history of making bad life choices despite knowing better.
And I . . . I could touch him.
Stomach dipping, I placed a soapy hand on his chest. He seemed to inhale deeply, or maybe it was me. I wasn’t sure as I drew my palm over his skin, watching the white beads disappear in the suds. I stayed clear of the wound in his chest and the ones on his arms even though they looked far better, almost completely closed. Lathering the soap once more, I glided my palm over his stomach.
Holding my lip between my teeth, I brought my hand near his navel. My pulse was ticking rapidly, and my skin felt hot despite the cooling of the water and the air. I closed my eyes as my hand slipped over his hip, along the inside and over the taut muscle there. I didn’t go farther. I wanted to, but that seemed highly inappropriate, all things considered.
The muscles beneath my fingers tensed, and I opened my eyes to see what my hard work had accomplished. The blood was gone, and I no longer saw those tiny specks appearing where the suds had trailed off. Other than the wound, he looked much better. His skin tone had even deepened, more tan than sandy now, and his body . . .
There was still not a single strand of body hair to be seen. It was as if he’d been carved from marble, every line and muscle perfectly defined. My gaze lowered, drawn irresistibly to the . . . the thick, hard length of him.