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“Come here.” She points to the chair, and I stagger over to it, falling back into the seat.
She lays her palm over my forehead, frowning. “You’re all clammy. I knew you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’m fine,” I insist as she presses the compress to my cheek, but I drop my aether and let her in, identifying the scent of the perfumed water. “Ugh. I hate lavender.”
“Really?” She brings the washrag to her nose and inhales deeply. “There are many terrible scents on the surface, but I think this is heavenly.”
“I think it stinks.”
She presses the cloth to the triangle of skin showing beneath my undone buttons. “Well, you smell worse, so take your blouse off.”
I peel the salt-and-sweat-soaked fabric away from my skin, and she strokes the cool cloth down my neck and over my shoulders. My eyes close as the repetitive motion soothes my aching head enough to let it drop.
“Could you take this off, too?” she asks, touching the bind that keeps my wings flattened against my back.
I hold a hand to my chest and grumble as water trickles past the tight band, but the thought of the cold cloth moving over my itchy flesh is too nice to resist. I unwrap the bind and revel in the air ghosting along my damp skin after each pass.
She works back to my shoulders, and I sit up as she brushes the base of my wings. My face comes close to hers.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, straddling me for better access to by backside.
My wings tighten on instinct. “That spot is sensitive.”
“Is it ok for me to keep going?” Her nails scratch the itchy bumps that are forming after three days of perspiring without washing. “You’re getting a rash between them.”
No one ever touches my wings. No one ever gets this close to me.
But I’m at Cordelia’s disposal, and I want to feel better again.
I nod my yes.
“I’ll be extra gentle, then,” she says. “Even though you’re being a barnacle tonight.”
“I am not being–” She continues tracing her way down my spine, and my eyes roll back.
I forget what I’m saying as she rocks forward on her knees, her hair spilling over me. She washes me carefully, those silky strands trailing along my body.
The wet cloth arrives at my waistband, and a pulse runs through the aether.
Her eyes shine in the night, still human, but reminiscent of the vision I saw in my dream.
Her breath washes over my lips, and I part them. We’re so close, and the air is thick with a wanting I’m not sure she understands.
No. She would never want this.
I grip her hips and place her on her feet, catching myself on the dresser before I can fall over.
“Thank you,” I tell her, flipping one palm up. “But I can take it from here.”
She drops the cloth into my open hand, and that flicker of heat is overtaken by another emotion.
Guilt, or something like it.
There are words I want to say to her, but they’re all jumbled in my head. It’s probably better that they’ll go unspoken. Telling her I can sense her shame will only make things worse.
Our bond isn’t fair. It never has been.
My stomach curdles, and I slump onto my forearms.
