Inside the adjoining bathing chamber, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of steam and a heavy, brooding silence.

The room was a testament to the Marquis’s taste of austere luxury– vast and lined with dark, polished volcanic stones that caught the flickering light of the scented candles.

In the center of the room sat a massive, sunken marble tub, large enough to accommodate his towering frame. Brass fixtures shaped like roaring hounds poured steaming water into the basin, the vapor rising up to the high, vaulted ceiling where shadows danced in the corners.

Vincent sat motionless in the hot water, his arms resting heavily against the wide marble edges of the tub. The heat seeped into his tight muscles, temporarily soothing the angry, jagged wounds tracing his back, but it did absolutely nothing to quiet his mind.

Now that he was entirely alone behind closed doors, he was finally able to think properly.Or rather, he was finally forced to confront the thoughts he had been desperately fleeing.

That woman—

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the stone lip.

For some twisted, pathetic reason, a desperate part of him wished she would just go back to treating him like trash. He wished she would glare at him with that cold, familiar disgust in her eyes, because that he knew how to handle. He had a lifetime of experience dealing with hatred, malice and fear. He knew exactly where to build his walls against a woman who loathed him.

But this version of Penelope? The one who furrowed her brows in genuine worry, who held his hand, who was now waiting up past midnight just to see him?

She was infinitely more dangerous. She was dismantling his defenses without even trying, slipping past his armor with a soft voice and that expressive look, and he could do nothing about it.

He was purposefully biding his time, dragging out the minutes in the quiet luxury of the bath. Hopefully, by the time he finally gathered the courage to step back out into his own bedroom, she would have given up and fallen fast asleep.

Surely.

Letting out another heavy, exhausted sigh, the hot water sloshed against the dark stone as he tried to force his mind to go blank, but the clinging weight around his torso made it impossible. It was finally time to get rid of the bandages.

They had become heavy, loose and entirely useless. He felt so exhausted that he did not have the strength to remove them properly, so he simply just soaked in the tub with it. But he couldn’t leave them on any longer.

Grimacing, he reached a hand behind his back, his fingers blindly groping for the knotted edges of the first wrap. Before his fingertips could even latch onto the wet cloth, a soft, familiar voice cut through the sound of dripping water, causing him to freeze instantly.

"Wait, let me help."

Vincent’s head snapped toward the entrance. Penelope, who had grown tired of waiting in the bedroom, had stepped inside just in time to see him struggling against his own injuries. Seeing him stretch his torn back, she stepped forward quickly, her bare feet moving without any thought over the slick volcanic stone.

But the wide, polished marble edges of the sunken tub were slick with overflowing water and condensation.

Vincent’s eyes widened.

"Penelope, watch your step–"

But it was too late.

With a startled gasp, Penelope lost her footing entirely. One second she was hurrying toward Vincent, and the next, the world had tilted beneath her feet.

"Ah–!"

She plunged forward, tumbling right over the wide marble lip. A sudden, soft splash echoed loudly through the chamber as she landed directly on top of Vincent’s lap.

Displaced water rolled off the edges of the tub, pooling across the dark flagstones in glittering sheets.

Vincent blinked. His usually sharp, unreadable gray eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. For a man who could anticipate an assassin’s blade from a mile away, he had been completely defenseless against a clumsy woman in a silk nightdress.

The sudden, burning heat of her body pressed flush against his lap sent a jolt straight down his spine, paralyzing him more effectively than any poison.

His brain seemed to stop functioning altogether.

Penelope, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, quickly pushed herself off his lap. Sputtering, she settled onto her knees right there in the warm water of the tub, her soaked nightdress clinging scandalously to her skin. She wiped a stream of warm water from her eyes, pushing her wet hair away from her face, and looked up.

Vincent was staring back at her. The initial shock on his face had quickly morphed into a fierce, dark glare, his jaw clamped so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek.His eyes burned with a chaotic mix of irritation and sheer, suppressed restraint.

Left with no other defense against his formidable glare, Penelope let out a small, breathless, and entirely helpless laugh.

"...Oops?"

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. His eyes narrowed into sharp slits, but instead of being intimidated, Penelope found herself thinking that he looked unfairly attractive when he was angry. The flush from the steaming water combined with his stark fury was utterly devastating.

"I... wanted to—"

"Didn’t I tell you to go to sleep?"

Vincent was beyond infuriated. This vexing woman! Just when he had finally managed to pull his fractured thoughts together, she had crashed through his defenses in the most chaotic manner possible.

To compound his torment, she was completely drenched. Because she had plunged headlong into the deep basin, she was now just as wet as he was.

The thin, wet silk of her nightgown clung ruthlessly to her frame, outlining every soft curve of her figure and the tantalizing swell of her breasts. Resting as she was upon her knees, the damp neckline dipped low against her chest, exposing the creamy expanse of her cleavage and the racing pulse at the base of her throat.

Heaven help him.

Vincent’s hands balled into tight fists beneath the surface of the water, his knuckles turning white as he fought a losing battle for restraint. His entire body went rigid, seized by a sudden, suffocating heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the bath.

"I thought you might need help with the bandages," Penelope said at last, her voice regaining its steady, stubborn cadence. She leaned forward slightly, refusing to back down from his glare.

"Furthermore, I am your wife, Vincent, not your slave. You don’t get to order me around and expect me to lower my head to your every whim. I admit that colliding into you was entirely my own clumsiness, but I was afraid you’d re-open your wounds again."

Her response stunned him.

"Penny–"

"You will listen to me now," she interrupted him, continuing from where she stopped. "Obviously, you need help. Had you simply asked, I would have assisted you from the start. Therefore, you will sit still, and I shall remove the remainder of your bandages."

Sit still?

She genuinely expected him to remain perfectly motionless under these conditions?

What did she think he was? Some mindless stone statue? A block of dead timber that would remain inert and unaffected simply because she willed it?

He was a man, and right now, every primal instinct he possessed was screaming at him to pull her back into his lap and teach her exactly how dangerous it was to provoke him. He was quite literally, clenching and unclenching his hands beneath the damn water.

Penelope’s brown eyes remained entirely unyielding, locked onto his with a fierce, unwavering determination. Under the weight of her gaze, Vincent felt the last vestiges of his resolve crumble.

He realized, with a profound sense of self-defeat, that he would indeed become a block of timber if she simply said so. He would be anything she wanted.

Unable to withstand the agonizing temptation of her drenched silhouette, Vincent abruptly averted his gaze, staring fixedly at the dark stone wall. He clamped his mouth shut, offering no further protest.

Seeing the fearsome commander suddenly go quiet and look away, Penelope already tasted victory. A small, satisfied smile touched her lips as she shifted back, lifting herself out of the water to sit on the wide, smooth coping of the bath, her legs dangling back into the warmth.

She tapped the space between her legs, beckoning him over with an air of authority she didn’t entirely feel. And as he rose from the water, Penelope’s breath caught completely, her lips parting in sheer astonishment.

Stripped of the water’s distortion, the man before her was a towering testament to raw, rugged power, wearing nothing but a dark silk loincloth that slung low across his hips, clinging precariously to his waist.

The firelight licked over the sharp, cut lines of his abdominal muscles and the massive breadth of his shoulders. A furious, scorching heat rushed to her cheeks, and she suddenly found the dark volcanic stone walls infinitely fascinating to look at.

Vincent didn’t say a word. He slowly turned his back to her and sank back down into the water, settling perfectly between her parted thighs as she sat on the edge.

Taking a steadying breath, Penelope leaned forward. Her small hands reached out, her fingertips carefully finding the knotted, sodden edge of the remaining linens. She began to slowly unravel the wet cloth, peeling it away from his skin with meticulous care.

"Your wounds are closing," she said, her voice a little higher than usual as she desperately tried to introduce a mundane topic to distract them both from the overwhelming tension. "All I see now are thin, angry red lines. Do they... do they still hurt?"

Vincent didn’t respond.

He sat completely rigid, his jaw clenched so hard the bone ached. He was utterly paralyzed by her proximity. Every soft, damp graze of her gentle fingers against the sensitive skin of his lower spine sent a violent jolt straight through him, making his lower belly tighten with a painful, demanding ache.

He was a seasoned commander who had survived iron and fire, but this was, without a doubt, the most exquisite torture the heavens could ever inflict upon him.

And the worst part was– the truly damning part was that he liked it. He craved it.

When the last of the heavy, soaked dressing finally fell away, Penelope stared down at his exposed back.

The new, healing lines from the whip were prominent, but they were surrounded by a history of older, pale scars that crisscrossed his toned skin—remnants of battles fought long before she ever truly knew him. But the imperfections did not diminish his allure. If anything, they made him look painfully human, a warrior who had bled for everything he owned.

Hardly realizing what she did, seemingly captivated by the map of his survival, her fingers continued to lightly explore the ridges of the silver scars.

Each featherlight touch made Vincent’s muscles flinch beneath her palms. Unable to take the agonizing sweetness of her touch any longer, he groaned out, his voice a low, raspy thread.

"Does it displease you to find me less than unblemished, My Lady? Does my marred skin repel you?"

Penelope blinked, instantly pulled out of her trance by the formal title. "When did I ever say that?"

Then more genuinely, "It’s actually quite the opposite, truly. With or without the scars, you’ll always look beautiful to me, Vincent."

That was his undoing. The thin thread of his iron restraint finally snapped.

Before Penelope could even catch her breath or process the sudden shift in the air, Vincent’s large hand shot backward. He caught her slender wrist in a grip that was unyielding but careful not to hurt her, and with a swift, powerful heave, he pulled her straight back down into the depths of the tub.

A massive wave of warm water splashed violently over the marble borders, echoing in the quiet chamber, but the mess was instantly forgotten.

Before Penelope could even sputter, Vincent spun around in the water. His hand locked securely around her damp waist, lifting her effortlessly to sit straddling his lap, pulling her completely flush against the hard, scalding frame of his chest.

Her soaked silk nightgown offered absolutely no barrier against the raw heat of his skin, against the hardened evidence of his desire.

He loomed over her, his gray eyes burning with a dark, predatory intensity that made her dizzy. He was breathing heavily, his thumb pressing possessively into the soft flesh of her hip.

"What are your intentions here, My Lady?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated right against her chest. He leaned in closer, his lips practically brushing hers. "Do you want me? Is that what this is? Do you ache for your husband? Speak up before I lose my mind."