Page 22 of The Realm That Falls to Her

“What are you doing?” I ask stupidly.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Washing.”

“I mean…I…” I don’t know what to say, and all the objections die in my mouth, sounding silly. Ruskin clearly doesn’t feel self-conscious around me, and I’ve seen him undressed many times before—know his body almost as well as my own. And if I’m honest, there’s a side of me that longs to see it again.

I just nod, casually turning away as if to examine the bed to allow him to take off his pants and climb into the water. I think I hear a low chuckle alongside the splash of him sitting down. Maybe he thinks me a prude, but in reality, I think I’m more afraid what will happen if I lay eyes on him again. Can I handle seeing him like this, without wanting more? Without feeling the sharp edge of not being able to have it?

I reach the bed, then make a decision. I won’t throw our naminai status into doubt with the Unseelie by requesting separate quarters, and I won’t be afraid to relax in my own room. I turn and sit down, relishing the soft spring of the mattress on my saddle-sore behind as I level my gaze at Ruskin.

He’s got his head leaned back and his eyes closed, enjoying the lap of water across his skin. I watch it move over the planes of his stomach, the tight lines of his abdominal muscles, and the curve of his broad chest. He’s as beautiful as ever, and I can’t take my eyes off him. My blood heats, sending my heart beating faster. I want so badly to strip off and climb in with him, to lay my body against his. The press of skin to skin is the only thing I can think of that could properly chase away the horror and strain of the last few days. I look at his body and I see home—the place I’m meant to be. So what does it mean when the person inhabiting it isn’t quite who he was?

I realize Ruskin has opened his eyes and is watching me stare at him. When I flush at being caught, a smirk spreads slowly across his face, sending bolts of lightning straight to my core.

“What?” I say, trying to sound defiant.

“You want me,” he says, sounding devilishly smug.

“Shut up,” I reply, because it would be pointless to lie. When I can’t do anything about my desire, his words just feel like a cruel taunt.

He laughs again, low and gentle. “Don’t be embarrassed, Eleanor, I want you too. I suppose that’s the least we can expect from a bond like ours.”

I feel an odd mix of emotions—a thrill of pleasure at him admitting his desire and an edge of danger too, because it feels different, almost forbidden, hearing it coming from this Ruskin. The way he dismisses it as just a side effect of the bond is painful, and yet I still burn for him. It’s torture.

“I assume we have lain together?” he asks.

“Yes,” I admit.

He nods and stands up. The water cascades off every perfect inch of him as he stands there in his full glory, and I get a direct view of his growing arousal, half-hard against the curls of black hair that travel in a dark trail up to his navel. I simultaneously hate and like the way the sight of it makes my throat go dry, my pulse twitching as my mind starts conjuring up vivid memories of that body colliding with mine. He elegantly steps out of the tub, his stomach muscles rippling, giving himself a perfunctory drying with the towel folded beside it, then he throws the cloth aside and stalks towards me.

I stand, my heart thudding, but the bed is at the back of my knees, and there’s nowhere to go as he looms over me. I can smell the scent of him—sweet and musky—and feel the heat coming off his skin. He pins me in place with his eyes, his naked body just inches from mine. How easy it would be to reach out and touch him, the idea almost chasing all other thoughts from my feverish mind. From the looks of it, Ruskin also seems almost driven to distraction by this tension between us. His pupils are blown, their pure blackness dominating his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with leashed desire.

“Well, I’m game if you are,” he says.

My own body reacts to the thought of it, the heat in my stomach coiling downwards, tightening around my core, I squeeze my thighs together at the building sensation. His lips twitch, and I remember Ruskin’s excellent sense of smell. He can already tell how much I want to give in, and I teeter there on the cliff edge, pulled towards the abyss by the sight of him hard and ready before me. And yet?—

“You don’t even know me,” I say, a note of accusation in my voice.

I gasp as he lifts a hand and runs a single finger along my jawline, his eyes tracing my lips. It leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Yet I tell myself I can resist this, no matter how irresistible my body is telling me Ruskin is.

“But I want to get to know you,” he says. “Isn’t that the point?”

I catch his hand and lower it. It wouldn’t be the same, making love to this version of him. It would still be glorious and satisfying, I have no doubt, but different. I don’t think I’m ready to risk that with him yet, as much as my skin begs for his hands on me. I close my eyes, asking the universe for strength.

“I think I’ll pass,” I say. I wonder if he’ll argue. I can sense he, too, is on the edge. But when I next look up at him, he doesn’t seem annoyed. Instead, he simply shrugs and steps back.

“Another time, then.”

He proceeds to throw himself down on the bed with a contented sigh, still fully naked. The bastard. He’s going to make me fight to do the right thing, and then force me to lay next to his naked body all night? I glare at him, but it’s no use, because he’s already closed his eyes, and moments later the slow rise and fall of his body tells me he’s asleep, splayed out across the blankets with his perfect ass on show.

I need to cool off, so I take the opportunity to wash, finding it soothes my hungry body. Then I realize I’m taking probably more time than is necessary trying to scrub away not just the grime of the day, but the creeping set of fears it’s given me—that Maidar won’t be able to help Ruskin, that Lisinder will change his mind, or that Evanthe will find a way to get to us anyway. I find some nightclothes and slip into bed beside Ruskin—it’s so huge there’s more than enough room for both of us. For a moment, while he’s asleep, I pretend that he remembers everything, that he still loves me, and I risk planting a kiss on his shoulder. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and I find some comfort in the weight and warmth of him by my side, as sleep eventually claims me too.

I make sure to be already up and dressed before Ruskin wakes, trying to ignore the still tempting sight of his body as I retreat to Destan’s room next door. I’m hoping to save myself any awkwardness, but Destan gives me a knowing look when I knock and slip inside, then turns back to the mirror where he’s trying to fix his hair.

“You’re hiding from him, aren’t you? I heard from the servant they gave you the same room.”

“Can’t a girl just check if her friend is all right?” I say with a grimace, because he’s right, of course. “How’s your arm?”

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