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He fell asleep. Aurienne bustled about with the homemade infusion stand.

Hundreds, thousands, of idiotic things had been said to her by half-conscious patients over the years.

This marked the first time she felt the warmth of a blush on her cheeks.

That night, when Mordaunt hadfallen asleep, Aurienne drew herself the bath she had desired all day. She sank into the hot water for a well-deserved soak. Amid the fragrance of lavender sachets and soapy steam, her stresses melted away—mostly. Two knots in her upper back would remain until she died, probably. She ought to name them Mordaunt One and Two.

Mordaunt was doing much better, however. That was the principal thing. And she had got advice from Cath on his care without having disclosed too much about who, exactly, she was healing. A bloody Fyren. There was a Fyren presently asleep in her childhood bed. Mad. Her mother would kill her.

It was—Fria forgive her for this thought—in many ways a great pity he was a Fyren. He had a quick wit—intermittently charming, more oftmocking, but well matched to hers. He was considerably competent and wasn’t deficient physically (quite the contrary, unfortunately). He was well educated, though with a questionable specialisation. Mannered, though occasionally caddish. And he trod the fine line between expertise and arrogance. Aurienne supposed people could say the same about her.

She sighed and sank deeper into the tub. He was what he was.

She was tired. She was stiff.

She wanted an orgasm.

Moreover, she deserved one.

She closed her eyes. Her hand travelled from the edge of the bathtub to her breast, brushed at a wet nipple, and slipped between her legs. The ceiling faded away and was replaced, a bit unusually for her, with the idea of a man between her legs. She paid him little heed other than the novelty of it. He was nondescript; his face was a blur; all that mattered was his capable tongue moving back and forth in a rhythm matching her fingers. She leaned her head back and pressed her palm against herself in small circles. The gentle climb towards orgasm began. Her breathing came heavier; her breasts rose and fell in little movements, an inch above and an inch below the waterline, pleasantly stimulating her nipples with the switch between hot and cold. She was getting close. Behind her closed eyelids she put her hand in the man’s hair and guided him upwards a bit, a little to the left, please, and harder. Her fingers matched her command. Her heartbeat accelerated. She was beginning to crest.

That was when she noticed the man’s hands clasping her thighs. He wore black leather gloves. And his hair—

“No,” gasped Aurienne, but it was too late. She was over the edge.

She came, unwilling, pulsing with horror and pleasure and horror and pleasure, knowing exactly who she had come to.

She lay in silence, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, slick and swollen with the memory of him.

When she had towelled off, and got over the shock, Aurienne toldherself, with supreme conviction, that it meant nothing. It had been scratching an itch. Mordaunt and his stupid comment from earlier happened to be on her mind; that was all.

She would never think about it again.

She was very good at compartmentalising.

19

Sharing Your Tragic Backstory with Your Hot Enemy

Osric

When Osric next awoke, Fairhrim was beside him. She had returned to her usual whites, but in the form of a soft, high-waisted dress. Her hair was in a loose, curling knot at the base of her neck. Her edges were still there, however—her posture was perfect; her shoulders were square beneath gauzy fabric.

Fairhrim saw that he was awake. With a surprising lack of edge, she said, “Someone once told me it’s rude to stare.”

“Not sure I’ve got the strength to turn my head,” said Osric. It was mostly true. “Are we alone?”

“Yes.”

“What time is it?” asked Osric, his voice a weak rasp.

“Half past two, two days after. How are you?”

“In grand fettle,” said Osric.

“How’s your pain?”

“Feel like I got filleted.”