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He turns toward the grand staircase, leaving the mound of Julian’s remains sitting on the Persian runner. I immediately reach out, my fingers trembling as I press my palm flat against his ribs, right where the silver spear punched through his flesh only minutes ago.
The skin is warm. Scorching, actually. There’s a jagged, star-shaped mark where the barbed point had torn into him, pink and newly healed, but the black rot is completely gone.
My breath hitches. The reality of it hits me all at once—the sight of nine hundred pounds of Highland grizzly launching into the air, deliberately catching a poisoned spear meant for my throat.
"You absolute idiot," I whisper, my throat tightening until it hurts. My thumb brushes the fresh mark over his ribcage. “You jumped in front of it. You could have died."
Lachlan pauses on the third step. He looks down at me, his hazel eyes wide and dark, the golden embers in his irises burning with a slow, steady intensity that makes the air feel thick between us.
"I'd do it ten times over, Vivienne," he says quietly, every syllable stripped of humor, stripped of pride. "I'd jump into the pit of the old Gods themselves before I let iron touch you."
A lump forms in my throat, thick and painful.
I lift my hand, ignoring the grime on my knuckles, and touch his jaw. The dark stubble is rough against my palm, damp with rain and sweat.
He stops at the master suite doors, nudging the heavy oak open with his shoulder. The room is quiet, the tall windows looking out over the rain-slicked trees of the estate. Down in the library, the black hearth fire pulses with a deep, territorial hum that vibrates right up through the floorboards, but inside this room, the world is hushed.
He carries me straight past the rumpled velvet bed and into the master bathroom.
The room is enormous—green slate tile, dark mahogany trim, and an open walk-in shower built out of polished river stones with twin brass showerheads overhead. Lachlan sets me gently on the edge of the marble vanity counter, his hands lingering on my hips, steadying me as I find my balance.
I don't let him step back. I grab the lapels of his... well, he isn't wearing a shirt, so I grab the back of his neck, pulling him down until his face is inches from mine.
"Look at me," I demand, my voice unsteady.
He looks. He doesn't hide behind the gruff bodyguard glare. His gaze searches my face with a terrifying, reverent hunger, like he’s trying to memorize the freckles on my nose after believing he’d never see them again.
"You're alive," I murmur, my thumb tracing the sharp arch of his cheekbone, brushing away a streak of dried black mud. “You’re really alive."
"Aye," he breathes, his forehead coming down to rest lightly against mine. His breath washes over my lips, warm and smelling of clean rain and raw power. "Because of you. Because my mate is a stubborn, reckless little queen who refused to let me rot."
"Damn right," I whisper.
And then he kisses me.
It isn't the rushed, desperate clash of teeth from the foyer, and it isn't the possessive claim of a warrior claiming his prize. It’s slow. Aching. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like clouds breaking open to the sun. His lips are soft against mine, parting gently, coaxing a broken little sigh from my chest as his hands slide up to cup my jaw.
His thumbs stroke the skin beneath my ears, his touch so careful, so agonizingly gentle, it makes my eyes sting with fresh tears. I wind my fingers into the dark, curling hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, melting into the heat of him until the chill in my bones is completely burned away.
When he finally draws back, his pupils are blown wide, his breathing heavy and uneven.
"Shower," he rasps, his voice thick with a want so raw it makes my pulse flutter against my ribs. "Before the leeches' stink settles into your skin."
He turns the brass handles, and the pipes shudder before a torrential cascade of near-scalding water roars down from the ceiling, filling the stone stall with dense, fragrant steam.
Lachlan steps back to the counter and kneels between my knees.
There’s no hurry in him now. He works with steady, methodical care, unlacing my ruined, waterlogged sneakers before sliding them off my feet. He peels off my damp socks, tossing them toward the hamper, his large hands smoothing over my calves, warming my cold skin.
He reaches for the hem of my gray sweater.
"Hands up, lass."
I lift my arms, and he pulls the torn, muck-stained knit over my head, leaving it in a sodden pile on the floor. He unhooks my bra, his fingers surprisingly nimble against the clasp, discarding it without taking his eyes off mine. When his hands move to the button of my jeans, his knuckles graze the bare skin of my lower stomach, and a shiver ripples straight down to my toes.
He pops the brass button and slides the denim down my hips, taking my underwear with it.
I sit bare on the marble counter, feeling the cool stone against my thighs, flushed under the weight of his gaze. His eyes travel slowly down the line of my throat, over my collarbones, tracing the curve of my waist before locking onto my left wrist.
