Page 62 of Iron Roses

She smells like skin-warm linen and something sweet—fig and milk and the faint trace of lemon from the soap she favors. I breathe her in, and my shoulders fall, tension draining from me one inch at a time.

My eyes close. When they open again, hers are watching me, soft and unblinking.

Her fingers slide into mine.

And I follow her.

She leads me through the house without a word, steps silent against the marble floors. We move past candlelight and long shadows, through the far corridor of my wing, past doors she was never meant to open.

But she opens mine.

The bathing chamber glows in golden warmth.

Steam curls against stone walls. The scent of eucalyptus drifts in soft waves. A tub, carved deep into dark polished marble, sits waiting. Water still steaming.

Her hands reach for the buttons of my suit. Blood has crusted along the seams. My gloves are stiff. She peels them away, fingers brushing over my knuckles.

She doesn’t look away as she works.

Not when she strips the jacket.

Not when the vest drops with a dull thump.

Not even when the last barrier falls and I’m laid bare before her.

Her eyes travel my body with quiet reverence, pausing on the bruises blooming across my ribs, the faint scar across my hip from a fight she never saw.

She takes my hands again—smaller in mine, cooler. She leads me forward and I step down into the warmth. The water envelopes me, the heat biting into blood-stained skin, peeling away grime and violence.

I sink until my shoulders are submerged, arms resting against the black stone edge. Eyes closed.

She kneels beside the tub as the water stains red around me. A thin pink cloud forms, then fades. Her hand dips into the water, brushes across my chest before she reaches for the drain. The water gurgles as it empties.

She doesn’t leave.

She fills it again.

Warmer this time.

She watches me, head tilted slightly, her eyes not searching—just seeing. A quiet calm surrounds her, but I can feel the pressure behind it. The way her fingers curl slightly, the way her breath shivers through her nose.

Then she stands.

Reaches for something behind her.

Shampoo.

She steps close. I don’t move.

Her hand touches the back of my neck first. She tips my head gently, the way you’d guide a sleeping child.

Warmth runs over my scalp, followed by her fingers.

They move with practiced grace, massaging circles. I forget how to breathe.

Her body leans in, pressing lightly to my back, her breath brushing my temple.

Then—softly, a whisper into my ear:

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