Page 93 of Ashen Torment

I place the vial back on the tray in his hands.

“Prepare my bath, Étienne.”

He moves away, returning shortly after with brass pitchers containing already heated water. While he prepares the tub, I slowly untangle myself from the linen shirt, feeling the fabric slide over my shoulders and down my chest. My trousers, heavy and tight, follow the movement, sliding to the floor.

He steps forward.

“Everything is ready.”

“Merci, Étienne. Wait for me here.”

“Yes, Viscount.”

The lukewarm water envelops me the moment I step over the rim of the tub, my body yields.

Only my face remains above the water, my chin flush with the surface. I slide the sponge between my hands, damp and soft, soaked in sandalwood and honey soap. The scent clings to my skin and hair, filling my nose and mouth with a dense taste.

I rub it along my arms, my chest, my hips; my skin reacts, shivers run down my spine, the water gurgles around my body. My thumb follows my ribs, the soap seeps into the folds of my skin.

It is not enough.

I stretch my arm out of the water and find the brush, I grip it with my fingers and bring the boar bristles with me beneath the warm surface. The wood soaks instantly, growing dark, heavier. I press the bristles to my skin.

I need to erase him.

Wash it all away.

I need to rid myself of the part of him that still clings to me.

I begin to scrub.

The first pass pulls the skin back, drags it.

The third leaves a red streak pulsing just beneath the epidermis.

By the fifth, the skin is already beginning to sting.

More.

More.

More.

The sound is muffled by the water, the surface of my arm turns red before my eyes. The sandalwood and honey dissolve, the scent cracks, shifts. The bristles dig in, insist, slip, but always return to strike the same spot. My shoulder stiffens, the water laps at my throat as I lean forward, trying to reach every inch. My chin brushes the surface, a thread of water enters my lips, bitter with rust and soap.

I can still taste that sweetness. It’s revolting.

My hand drifts slowly to my throat.

How do I make it stop?

My fingers dig into my skin, then fall back into the water.

My arm pulses. A warm vibration that rises to my chest, then down, inside. It feels almost like peace.

Almost.

A light knock at the door.