Chapter 28: Chapter 28: Bath
The door swung open on silent hinges, and Chris froze on the threshold.
Marble. Floor to ceiling. Columns carved like something stolen from a forgotten temple, a chandelier dripping crystal above a tub big enough to drown in. Gold fittings gleamed faintly in the lamplight, polished mirrors throwing back every line of his tension. Even the air smelled expensive, faint citrus and some high-end floral notes, crisp and clean in a way that made his throat tighten.
His black eyes flicked from the wide tub to the glass-walled shower to the folded stacks of towels waiting like they’d been laid out for a coronation instead of a bath. Of course they had. He could already picture some silent attendant slipping in earlier, smoothing the corners, and arranging everything as though preparing an altar.
A low chuckle came from behind him. "Go on," Dax murmured, voice warm with that lazy amusement. "Before you start cataloguing the tilework."
Chris’s jaw worked, a dry sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. "You don’t miss a trick, do you? Even my shower looks like a hostage negotiation."
"More like an invitation," Dax said lightly. "You’ll be more comfortable after. By the time you’re done, something light will be waiting."
Chris shot him a sidelong look, sneakers still dangling from one hand. "You really have this all planned out, don’t you?"
Violet eyes glinted. "I do plan ahead," Dax said simply, leaning against the doorframe as though he had all night. "Shower, Malek. Eat. Then argue with me if you still have the energy."
Chris muttered something under his breath that might have been a curse and stepped inside, the marble cool beneath his socks. He shut the door with his heel and stood for a moment with his back to it, palms braced on the cool marble. The faint citrus-floral scent clung to the air, a reminder that someone had thought about this room down to the last note. He hated how much it made his shoulders loosen.
He was already out of the uniform, back in his own clothes, a thin grey t-shirt and black pants, the kind of outfit that didn’t announce anything. But the fabric clung to his skin, damp from sweat, and the weight of the night still sat on him like a second layer.
’Fine. I needed a shower anyway.’
He dropped his sneakers with a dull thud and sat on the padded bench tucked against the wall. The leather was buttery-soft under his palms, a ridiculous thing to be sitting on while peeling off socks. He tugged them off one by one, wincing as the fabric peeled away from damp skin. The blisters were angry red crescents across his heels, the kind that would sting for days.
Chris rubbed a thumb along one, hissing through his teeth. "Perfect. Queen of Blisters. Exactly the look." His voice echoed faintly against the marble, swallowed almost at once.
He flexed his toes against the cool tile. Sweat clung to his shirt, tacky on his spine, and his hair felt heavy at the nape. Under the thin cotton of his t-shirt he could smell himself, a day’s worth of work and nerves and fear all layered into one. It made his skin crawl.
’Gross. Gods, I hate this.’
With a sharp exhale, he pushed himself upright, tugging the t-shirt over his head and dropping it beside the socks in a neat heap he didn’t remember making. The pants and underwear followed. Steam curled up from the glass-walled shower when he turned the handle. He watched it for a heartbeat, jaw tight, then stepped in.
Warm water hit his skin in a rush, pounding over his shoulders, rinsing away sweat, the tang of wine, and the phantom press of too many eyes. For the first time since stepping off the bus, he let his head tip back under the spray, eyes closing. The hiss of water filled the marble chamber, muffling everything else. His muscles began to unclench, little by little, even as his mind refused to stop moving.
’You’re in his house,’ he reminded himself. ’His staff. His rules. Don’t forget it just because the water’s hot.’
Still, he stood there a moment longer, letting it wash over him, the heat leeching the last of the night’s chill from his bones.
—
Steam clung to him when he finally shut the water off. For a moment he stayed there, palms flat to the cool marble, head bowed, breath moving slow and even like he could trick himself into calm. Then he reached for one of the towels, thick enough to feel like a blanket, and dragged it over his skin, blotting instead of rubbing. The scent of it was clean and neutral; no hint of Dax.
When he stepped out of the shower, the bench against the far wall no longer held only his damp pile of clothes. Laid out with the same care were fresh things meant for sleeping: a soft pair of drawstring trousers in pale grey, a matching long-sleeved shirt cut loose enough to slide over damp skin without clinging, and under it a folded set of light cotton underwear. Even the slippers at the foot of the bench looked new, padded, and silent.
Chris paused with the towel around his waist, black eyes flicking over the ensemble. ’Of course,’ he thought, jaw tightening. ’Wouldn’t want the stray shivering at night.’
Still, his fingers found the fabric almost despite himself. The cotton was cool and smooth, the kind that warmed quickly against skin; the shirt fell to mid-thigh, sleeves brushing his wrists. Everything fit as though someone had guessed his size down to the inch or asked Mia for it. Even the waistband of the trousers sat soft against his hips, nothing to chafe or remind him of a uniform.
He dressed quickly, toweling his hair once more before pushing damp strands back from his face. In the mirror the reflection looking back at him could almost pass for deliberate: tall, long-limbed, unmarked, wearing clothes that said comfort without saying whose. Only the tension in his jaw and the faint steam curling off his skin betrayed the truth.
He slid his feet into the slippers, the padded soles swallowing his steps, and drew a slow breath. The scent of citrus and marble still hung in the air, but now it mixed with clean cotton and the faintest trace of his own skin, scrubbed raw of the day.
’Alright, Malek,’ he told his reflection. ’For now you are showered and dressed. Let’s see what the king thinks of that.’
The suite beyond was dimmer than the bathroom, lit only by low sconces and the golden spill of a single lamp. The marble and gilt had softened into something intimate; the echo of palace corridors gave way to carpet and heavy drapes, the kind of silence built for privacy rather than grandeur.
Dax was already there.