“Imagining our happily-ever-after, lovely?”
“More like imagining smothering you with those fancy pillows,” she snaps.
She crosses the room and steps through the closet, into the washroom. She runs her hand over the large stones on the edge of the tub.
“Sunstones for your bath. You put them in until the water is the temperature you like.”
She nods and places most of them in the tub. Then she turns and begins opening all the cabinets in the vanity, riffling through my things as if I’m not standing right there.
“Looking for something?”
“Gauze,” she says without looking up.
“You won’t need it. Once you bathe, I’ll heal you.”
She opens her mouth to argue but must think better of it. She crosses to the door on the other side of the washroom and pushes it open, standing in the threshold of her closet for a moment. “What are these?”
“Dresses for you,” I say.
“I already have clothes.”
“And I had more designed for you. A seamstress will take care of any alterations and fit you for additional clothing of your choosing.”
She holds up a hanger with dark lace lingerie.
“You’re welcome to skip undergarments if you prefer,” I say. “Your room is on the other side of the closet, so I’m close if you need me.”
She glowers at me, hooks the hanger on the bar, and steps back into the washroom. “Fine. Get out.” She peels off her cloak and tosses it at me.
The wound on her shoulder is worse than I thought. Her sweater and undershirt are shredded. She presses her palm to it, and it comes away bloody. The scent of it hits me and I fight the impulse to yank off all the layers and look at how bad it truly is. It’s only then that I realize her hand is still trembling.
I should not care if she’s hurt. Idon’tcare if she’s hurt—except that her being hurt reflects poorly on me, and it chafes that she won’t just let me fix it.
“You must be sore. I can help you?—”
“Get out of the Divine-damned washroom, Henry. I’ll be fine without you hovering.”
I back out of the room, close the door, and dart off to bathe somewhere else.
It must not hurtthatbadly because Harlow takes an obscenely long bath. When she finally opens the washroom door to let me in, I’ve already bathed and changed.
Her skin looks light gray in my monochrome vision. She’s flushed, her skin dewy, damp hair dripping onto her robe.
She sits on the edge of the tub, and I kneel in front of her.
I lift my hand to heal her, and she flinches.
We both freeze. That reaction is one of a woman braced for a blow. Her eyes go wide, like she’s shown me something she didn’t intend to.
It’s such an obvious tell. I can’t decide if this is the act or if she’s so exhausted from our travels that this is the true moment where her mask has slipped.
“I would never raise a hand to you,” I whisper. “Unless you wish me to.”
She purses her lips. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I feel a pressing need for a slap.”
I laugh in spite of myself. Thank the Divine. She’s still well enough to be sarcastic. “Let’s see that shoulder.”
She lets the robe slip, revealing smooth, pale skin marred by five jagged slashes stretching from her shoulder across her collarbone.
