Season 1: Awakening the Viliness

  Ch 9: A Touch Too Close

  The morning brought word of the gathering Mira had hoped she could quietly avoid.

  It came folded into a parchment with a wax seal she didn’t recognise—elegant, clean, perfumed faintly with rose and orange blossom. She opened it with a letter knife and read the contents twice, hoping she’d misunderstood the tone. She hadn’t.

  The monthly Circle of Dominion convening. Hosted by some noble she didn’t know. No canceltions permitted.

  Attendance was expected. So was presentation.

  She stared at the phrasing, the nguage measured and precise. It wasn’t a salon, not quite. Not a political meeting, either. Somewhere in between. A closed event for noble powerholders and their inner courts—advisors, favoured consorts, personal attendants. Or, more pinly, their pets.

  She remembered it now. Vaguely. A scene early in the book—Fae attending as an observer, not yet chosen, watching Nysera glide through a room of velvet and dominance with Luceran kneeling behind her chair, colred, silent, watched by the other pets like a warning.

  Mira’s stomach turned.

  She folded the letter and set it aside, pressing her gloved fingers to her temples. Cancelling would look weak. Not presenting him would raise questions. Sending someone else in her pce would be cowardice Nysera never showed.

  A knock sounded at her chamber door. Mira stood, smoothing her robes. “Enter.”

  One of the upper housemaids stepped in, expression carefully neutral. “Your pet has been escorted to the bathing grotto for ritual inspection, my dy. Preparations are complete. Shall I call for your attendants to assist?”

  Mira hesitated, her throat catching on the word ritual.

  She had no idea what was expected.

  But she shook her head. “No. I’ll go.”

  The maid blinked, bowed once, and left without comment.

  Mira didn’t know why she said it. Maybe she wanted control. Maybe she needed to see him again. Or maybe—against her better judgement—she wanted to be alone with him in a pce where touch was permitted, even expected.

  She followed the servant’s path through the rear corridor of the estate, past tticed doors and mosaic-tiled floors, until the air shifted from cool marble to something warmer, wetter, faintly fragrant. The bathing grotto was tucked into the far eastern corner of the grounds—half natural cave, half architectural indulgence.

  The entrance opened onto a carved stone arch framed in ivy and soft ntern light. Steam rose from within, curling against the edges of the sun. She stepped through, and the air kissed her skin with heat.

  The grotto was open to the sky, enclosed on three sides by stone and lush greenery, the fourth giving way to a sloped terrace where the water pooled. The scent of vender and citrus hung thick in the air, masking something more primal—salt, heat, skin. It was beautiful. Sensual. Performative.

  The steam curled around her ankles as Mira stepped further into the grotto, soft sandalwood and citrus clinging to the air like perfume. The sound of trickling water echoed from somewhere unseen—gentle, rhythmic, lulling. Warmth hugged her skin as if the space had been designed not for cleansing, but for surrender.

  Luceran knelt at the edge of the pool, head bowed, still as marble. A soft towel was wrapped low around his hips, damp at the edges where it clung to his thighs. His skin glistened faintly with moisture, the curve of his spine clean and sharp, the muscles of his back drawn tight with restraint rather than tension.

  He wasn’t bound. But he knelt like a man who had memorised the weight of command.

  Mira stopped a few paces from him.

  He didn’t look up.

  His hands rested neatly on his thighs, fingers spread, breath quiet. The light filtering through the open ceiling dappled across his shoulders, catching faint glints of water still clinging to his colrbone, his neck, the hollow of his back. He was beautiful. Not passively. Not incidentally. This was beauty trained. Maintained. Dispyed. The kind meant to be seen and never touched without permission.

  And yet, he waited for her.

  She swallowed once, silently. The bath water was still. The scent of vender felt heavier now, like it had thickened to fill the space between them. She could see a small gold csp lying on a folded towel nearby—his colr, or what passed for one, ceremonial now but still expected for public dispy.

  “Rise,” she said softly, and hated how her voice tried to tremble.

  He did.

  Fluidly. Obediently. No hesitation. But as he moved, Mira realised something had changed. His stillness wasn’t hollow. It was watchful. Not defiant. Not even hopeful. Just… waiting to see who she would be this time.

  For a moment, Mira’s hand lifted—impulse more than intent—fingers reaching toward the damp strand of hair clinging to his temple. But she caught herself just before contact, blinked once, and curled her hand into a loose fist. The gesture felt absurd in the heat, like she was trying to squeeze purpose from air.

  She looked around the room instead, searching for context. On the far side of the grotto, a small alcove held a folded robe, oils, a soft-bristled brush. Everything arranged neatly, no doubt in the exact order Nysera preferred it. A tray of white linen cloths. A set of silver combs. This wasn’t just a bath. This was a ritual—part care, part theatre, entirely choreographed.

  She didn’t know the steps.

  Her eyes flicked toward a young attendant half-hidden behind a carved screen, posture deferent, gaze lowered. Another stood near the archway, waiting for permission to step in and assist.

  Mira cleared her throat. “Leave us.”

  The two maids bowed in unison and drifted out without question, the scent of rose oil trailing in their wake. Mira stood alone with him then, in the warmth, in the quiet, in the too-close air that no longer smelled like comfort.

  Luceran remained still. He hadn’t moved a muscle since rising, arms loose at his sides, chest rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm. He didn’t ask what she wanted. He didn’t offer instruction. He simply waited.

  She hated the silence for what it exposed in her.

  She took a breath, then another, and stepped closer, only to stop again, her fingers twitching uselessly by her side. “You—” Her voice caught, too formal, too rigid. She corrected, softened. “You know the routine, don’t you?”

  He blinked once. She watched the slow, almost imperceptible lift of his head, eyes finding hers. Not cold. Not accusing. Just curious, and far too perceptive.

  “I do,” he said, voice low, not sure if this is a test. “Would you like me to begin?”

  Mira stiffened. Not from offense. From embarrassment. From the quiet, steady weight of being seen.

  She nodded once, slow. “Yes. Do that.”

  It was a command. But only barely.

  Luceran nodded, slow and even, and turned toward the low bench beside the bath. He reached for a small ivory-handled comb resting on the edge of a folded towel and settled into pce without waiting to be instructed. The towel around his waist shifted slightly, revealing the hard line of his hip before settling again. He didn’t adjust it. He didn’t check her expression.

  He sat with the composure of someone who’d done this too many times to feel shame anymore.

  Mira moved toward him with cautious steps, then stopped when she realised her gloves were damp—soaked at the fingertips from the steam curling off the water, the heat clinging to her like a second skin. They clung, sticky and uncomfortable, already darkening with moisture where her palm had rested against her skirt.

  Without thinking, she stripped them off. One, then the other. She set them down on the marble edge of the bench and reached for the brush.

  She didn’t see when he stilled—not visibly, not dramatically—but something in the shape of his shoulders shifted, like a line in a drawing suddenly softening. His eyes didn’t flick to the gloves. They stayed on her face, and for the first time since she’d entered the grotto, there was something new in them.

  Not confusion. Not fear.

  Realisation.

  She didn’t notice. She was too focused on the brush in her hand, the uncertain space between them, the gnawing voice that told her she was always one wrong move from giving herself away. She lifted the brush slowly.

  He bent forward without being told. His head tilted. His hair fell in dark, damp sheets across his shoulders. And then—carefully, quietly—he spoke.

  “This part is done with long strokes. From crown to nape. You don’t need to press hard.”

  Mira swallowed, nodded, and set the brush to his hair. The bristles glided through the first time. Smooth. Clean. She tried to keep her hand steady.

  Luceran continued, voice low and even. “Rinse follows the brushing. Oil after. Only at the temples and the base of the neck. For scent.”

  He paused before adding, “And control.”

  The next brush stroke was slower. Her hand touched the back of his neck briefly—bare skin, warm and damp—and he inhaled softly, just once. Not sharply. Not with pleasure or pain. Just a breath, like it startled him to feel contact without consequence.

  He didn’t say anything else.

  He just let her touch him. Let her follow the shape of a ritual neither of them believed in anymore. And in that quiet, beneath the warmth of steam and sun, Mira didn’t see that she had just broken the first, most sacred rule of Nysera’s presence.

  Nysera never touched anything with bare hands.

  But Luceran had seen it.

  And he hadn’t flinched.

  He was guiding her through the performance.

  Mira set the brush down and reached for the small bottle of oil on the tray—amber gss, the stopper still warm from the steam. She uncorked it with a soft pop and caught the scent immediately: rose, clove, something darker beneath. It wasn’t gentle. It was meant to linger. To mark.

  She poured a few drops into her palm, rubbed her hands together. Her fingers were slick now, gleaming, bare. No gloves to hide behind.

  Luceran didn’t move. He waited, head still bowed, shoulders bare and open in the golden light, hair brushed smooth and tucked behind one ear. His body was motionless, but not tense. Not braced. Just present.

  She stepped closer and touched him again—fingertips pressing lightly to his temples, then trailing back along the curve of his neck. The oil left a sheen behind, catching the light, and his skin warmed beneath her hands. She moved slowly, precisely, but her control had a crack in it now. The intimacy wasn’t part of the act. It was just intimate.

  And he noticed.

  His breath hitched, soft but audible. The slightest tremor moved through his chest.

  She lingered. Not because she meant to, but because the silence between them no longer felt like stillness. It felt like the moment before.

  He turned his head a little—not enough to look at her directly, but enough that her fingers brushed along the corner of his jaw. His skin was hot there, flushed from the steam. She felt the shift in him, subtle but certain, as his body leaned—not urgently, not pleadingly, just a fraction forward, like her hand was gravity.

  Her pulse kicked.

  She tried to pull back, but didn’t.

  Not yet.

  Luceran exhaled slowly, and it wasn’t just relief. It was need. Quiet, restrained, but unmistakable. His mouth parted slightly. His eyes stayed half-lidded, focused somewhere near her wrist, like he was tasting the nearness of her, breathing it in.

  And his body reacted.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But Mira saw the twitch beneath the towel, the slow tension in his thighs, the faint flicker of hunger just under the surface. It wasn’t lewd. It was starved. The want wasn’t just for sex—it was for contact. For closeness that didn’t come with violence. For something he couldn’t name because it had never been given.

  Her breath caught.

  She didn’t know if the heat rising in her chest was from embarrassment or arousal. Probably both. His skin smelled like oil now, and steam, and man. Her fingers trembled slightly against his throat.

  Luceran didn’t speak. He didn’t look at her. But his breath deepened under her touch, steady but less controlled, like the heat was beginning to crack something open. Her fingers lingered at the curve of his neck, trailing oil across the skin just behind his ear, then down to the base of his throat. The glide of it was too easy. Too familiar. He tilted his head slightly into her touch—not demanding. Just present. Just willing.

  And gods, he was beautiful.

  Not just in the tragic way. Not just in the brokenness. Here, up close, with steam haloing his skin and her hands bare against him, he was all the things the book had promised. Long, lean strength wrapped in reverent stillness. A mouth made for whispered sins. Those hands, always ft to the floor, always still—Mira suddenly wanted to see what they’d look like gripping silk sheets.

  The thought struck her so hard she froze.

  She remembered Chapter Seventeen. Him in his ducal manor, a revel pying out among courtiers. The way he’d begged to be ruined and thanked them for it. That had been fiction—hyped, tagged, underlined. Something to smirk at on the Tube, blush over behind closed doors. And now it was here. He was here. Pliant, gorgeous, and breathing softly under her hands like she might be the answer to a question he no longer dared to ask.

  Her stomach flipped. Heat coiled low.

  She could touch him again. Let the oil run a little lower. Let her fingers trace the edge of the towel. He wouldn’t stop her. He’d thank her. He’d burn for her if she asked.

  She caught her breath—and jerked her hands away like she’d been caught stealing.

  Luceran didn’t move.

  His eyes opened slowly, gold-bright under the weight of withheld expectation. He didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned.

  Not to punishment. To disappointment.

  The silence hung heavy in the steam. Mira stood frozen, her hands slick with oil and heat, her skin burning in pces she couldn’t excuse. She couldn’t look at him—at the way his eyes stayed half-lidded, still soft, still open, even after she pulled away.

  Her breath was shallow. Her gloves sat forgotten on the bench. Her throat felt tight, raw with something she didn’t have a name for.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t reach. Just stayed there, kneeling, bare but composed, watching her the way he always did—with that quiet, aching stillness. He didn’t beg. He didn’t demand.

  But his voice, when it came, cracked anyway.

  “You don’t have to mean it,” Luceran said. “Just don’t pull away.”

  Mira’s heart twisted so hard it felt like something inside her snapped.

  She turned from him, too fast, heading for the exit, needing distance before the guilt boiled over into something worse. “If you know the ritual,” she said without looking back, “then finish it yourself.”

  Her voice sounded cold. It was all she had left.

  She didn’t wait for his answer. She didn’t need to see the way he lowered his head again, or how the silence returned to the space like a punishment they both had earned. Her feet moved fast over the marble, bare hands clenched at her sides, breath short.

  She pushed open the door and stepped into the cooler hallway, the air outside the grotto biting against her flushed skin.

  Blushing. Gods, she was blushing.

  Like this was a romance novel. Like this was her first kiss behind the gym lockers and not the wreckage of a boy shaped into obedience. A man who didn’t know how to want without pain. A body she’d read about in fan forums and now touched with real fingers, real breath, real heat.

  He wasn’t fiction.

  His scars weren’t there for her to fix.

  He wasn’t a character.

  And all she had offered him was want. Want dressed as care. Want that ran when it got too close.

  She didn’t look back.

  Didn’t breathe until she was halfway down the corridor, the grotto’s heat still clinging to her skin like shame. She walked fast, too fast for someone trying to look composed, but no one stopped her. No one dared.

  The estate swallowed her footsteps, silent as ever.

  Behind her, steam still curled through the air, soft and warm and perfumed with the memory of something unspoken. Luceran remained where she’d left him—half-oiled, half-kneeling, alone.

  And on the marble edge of the bench, forgotten in her haste, a pair of ivory gloves y folded, fingers curled inward like they were still holding something.