A folding screen partitioned the room, providing a place to hang clothes and a modicum of privacy.
Bran wheeled Cassian right up to the tub before bowing and leaving.
Elowen entered a beat later. Against the screen, she saw the clear silhouette of a man-tall, straight-backed, the line of his shoulders and neck speaking of lean strength.
After a moment, Cassian turned his head.
Even through the screen, his gaze felt tangible, settling heavily on Elowen.
The pressure was immediate.
“Not coming over?” Cassian asked.
“C-coming…” Heart fluttering, Elowen steeled herself and walked around the screen.
“Shall we start with the clothes?” Cassian’s voice was low, slightly hoarse, the words seeming to curl directly into her ear.
A tingle ran down her spine. Her heart skipped a beat.
Truth was, this was Elowen’s first time undressing a man.
In her past life, married to Alaric, she had suffered years of cold neglect.
Once, Alaric had come home unusually drunk.
The Queen had been planning to take a second wife for him, a concubine. Elowen, desperate, had decided her only chance was to truly become his wife-to share his bed, hopefully bear his child.
Her thinking had been simple then-a child might bind his heart to her, make her life more bearable.
And that night, he was drunk.
She had thought it the perfect opportunity.
In truth, she knew nothing of what to do.
She only knew that husbands and wives entered their chambers together at night, removed their clothes, blew out the candles, and lay together until morning. Do that enough, and a child would come.
That was the extent of her knowledge.
So, she had slipped into Alaric’s room. He lay on his back, eyes shut tight, a frown etched between his brows.
Summoning all her courage, she had reached to unlace his tunic.
The moment her fingers touched him, his eyes flew open.
Caught in the act, Elowen had blushed crimson. “I…”
She had meant to say something soft, to remind him they were husband and wife.
But Alaric’s gaze had been pure ice. Without a word, he had shoved her away with brutal force.
Elowen had crashed to the floor, the rough stone scraping the skin from her palms. Tears of pain had sprung to her eyes, only to be burned away by his cruel words, exploding in her ears: “Disgusting! Get out!”
Now, Elowen’s fingers hovered over the fastenings of Cassian’s belt.
The memory, sharp and cold, made her hesitate. She bit her lip. “My lord, would you find this… disgusting?”
After all, they say you have a woman you love.
This position as Duchess of Duskmoor-Elowen had, in a way, seized it.
Just as Alaric had found her desperate plea for marriage utterly disgusting, wouldn’t Cassian feel the same?
Wouldn’t he?
But Cassian didn’t speak for a long moment.
Elowen looked down, seeing his brow furrow, his expression turning cool. “Then leave.”
A bleak chill settled in her heart.
Of course. Disgusting.
She withdrew her hand. “Then… I’ll leave you alone…”
Cassian’s voice was flat. “I can manage.”
Elowen remembered her father and brother after their severe injuries. They hadn’t wanted help either.
A broken left arm? They’d use their teeth to help the right hand dress. A shattered right leg? They’d hop on the left.
She understood Cassian’s pride. Still, she whispered, “I… I’ll just sit by the screen. If you need anything, just call.”
Cassian gave a noncommittal grunt.
Elowen walked over, fetched a small stool, and sat down.
From behind the screen came the soft rustle of fabric-Cassian removing his clothes.
The wheelchair creaked, then came the sound of water sloshing as he presumably hoisted himself into the tub.
Elowen didn’t turn her head, but her cheeks remained warm.
Her mind wandered. When will he ask for an annulment? Once the woman he loves is willing to marry him, I suppose.
Once that happens, without the protection of Duskmoor Manor, I’ll need a new plan…
On the other side of the screen, Cassian sat in the bath, his gaze fixed on the screen.
The light from the oil lamp cast a faint, diffused glow, outlining Elowen’s silhouette.
She sat on the little stool, elbows on her knees, chin propped in her hands. She looked like a small creature in a new place, instinctively curling into a corner.
She hadn’t moved for a long time, lost in thought.
His mind returned to her earlier words.
Disgusting.
Did she find him disgusting? Or was it the act between husband and wife itself?
Would she feel the same revulsion if it were Alaric?
A frown creased Cassian’s brow. He closed his eyes.
Elowen rested her head in her hands, unaware of how much time had passed.
The room’s temperature had dropped noticeably, yet there was no sound from behind the screen.
“My lord?” she called out tentatively.
From beyond the screen, Cassian leaned against the tub’s edge, unmoving, unresponsive.
A sudden, cold dread shot through Elowen.
Did something happen to him?
She leapt to her feet.
Water had spilled onto the floor by the tub. She saw it, but her steps were too hurried, her injured knee unsteady.
As she neared the tub, her foot slipped. She lost her balance, pitching forward.
“Ah-!”
A gasp escaped her. She braced for a painful impact with the hard wooden edge.
She instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, but heard a loud splash instead.
A wave of cool, damp air washed over her. A strong hand shot out, gripping her arm firmly.
Instead of crashing into the tub, she tumbled into a wet, hard embrace.
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