Page 40 of Claws and Effect

“This way.” He helped her from the bed, his hand steady at her elbow as he guided her to a bathroom that rivaled luxury spas.

Steam rose from a sunken tub large enough for two, the water’s surface scattered with fragrant oils that smelled of lavender and cedar. Thick towels waited on heated racks, and subtle lighting created a soothing atmosphere.

“Call if you need anything,” Zyle said, stepping toward the door. “I’ll be in the sitting room.”

His respectful retreat—giving her privacy rather than presuming intimacy despite their night together—added more to her evolving understanding of him.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The bath proved blissful—hot water enveloping her body, healing salts tingling against her skin and seeping into her wounds. Laykin sank deeper, letting her head rest against a cushioned edge as tension melted from her muscles. The fragrant steam cleared her mind, washing away the day’s trauma in layers.

She examined the claw marks across her ribs, already beginning to heal with supernatural speed. By morning, they would fade to pink lines; in a few days, they’d be gone completely. Her body would recover, but the experience had changed something fundamental inside her.

Three assassination attempts meant someone considered her life worth less than preventing this alliance. The political had become dangerously personal.

When the water finally cooled, Laykin reluctantly emerged. She wrapped herself in a heated towel, then noticed clothing laid out on a marble counter—silk pajamas in her preferred style, a soft robe in her favorite shade of blue. More evidence of Zyle’s attention to detail.

She dressed and padded barefoot into the bedroom to find Zyle had transformed the space while she bathed. A fire crackledin the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The bed had been turned down, additional pillows arranged in precisely the configuration she preferred at home. On the nightstand sat a steaming mug of herbal tea and a small plate of shortbread cookies.

“Better?” Zyle asked, looking up from a book in the sitting area.

“Much,” she admitted, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“Not everything,” he demurred, setting his book aside. “Just the essentials.”

Laykin sipped the tea—chamomile with honey and a hint of lemon, exactly as she took it at night. “You questioned Seren thoroughly about my preferences, didn’t you?”

“I wanted you comfortable.” No apology, no embarrassment, just simple truth. “Would you like to watch something? Read? Or would you prefer to sleep?”

The consideration in the question—offering options rather than assuming—warmed her. “Actually, I’d love to watch something mindless. After today, I need the distraction.”

Zyle nodded and touched a remote. A section of wall slid aside to reveal a large screen. “Any preferences?”

“Something funny,” she decided. “No violence, no politics, no intrigue. Just... normal.”

He selected a classic romantic comedy, then hesitated. “Would you prefer to watch alone? I have work I could?—”

“Stay,” Laykin patted the space beside her. “Unless you hate romantic comedies.”

“I can endure anything that makes you smile,” he replied with surprising sincerity, settling beside her as the movie began.

They arranged themselves carefully—Zyle propped against pillows, Laykin nestled against his side, his arm a warm weight across her shoulders. The position felt unexpectedly natural asif they’d spent countless evenings this way instead of having known each other a little over a week.

As the movie played, Laykin found herself paying more attention to Zyle than the screen. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The occasional rumble of laughter in his chest. The gentle way his fingers traced patterns on her shoulder.

When had this arrangement—a political union designed by their families—transformed into something that felt like choice? When had duty become desire?

“What are you thinking about?” Zyle murmured, noticing her distraction.

“How strange life is,” she replied honestly. “A week and a half ago, I dreaded meeting you. Now...”

“Now?” he prompted when she didn’t continue.

Laykin shifted to look at him directly. “Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face—surprise, tenderness, and beneath it all, a fierce joy he couldn’t quite conceal. His hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb tracing her lower lip with exquisite gentleness.

“Even trapped in my panic room?” he asked, humor softening the intensity between them.

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