Juda stared into the water, letting his fingertips test for its warmth, and seeing images of her—her hand in the pool, her as she waded into it, her as she went under, sinking into its black depths.
On resurfacing, she hadn't even realised how long she'd been down there, but Juda had known. He'd felt the time as if it was a torture, something that had torn at his chest as if he were in the bloody square of the training yard, his opponent's scimitar slicing and stripping pieces of his flesh from his body. Slowly.
She'd not told him how long it would take if she were a Chosen, nor had she said when to give up all hope of her resurfacing.
He wondered then, as his fingers lingered in the warm water, what she would say if she knew that he had relinquished hope? If she knew what he had done while she had been discovering her story? As the waters had torn at her chest, torturing her with the truth of her mother's death?
Even if I do not resurface, do not look for me. Take whatever treasures remain here and leave the temple.
But Juda had only ever been interested in one treasure held within the Naiad temple. It's all he and Roth had ever been interested in. And now he had it. They had it.
He should have felt elated. All the planning. All the time spent opening the shaft, digging in the pitch darkness, with only Aleina to whisper light into his ear and show him the way.
Bachaeia es elidan. My blood is the way. It's the only way.
It wasn't. And he wished with his entire being that he could tell Elara it wasn't, but that would mean telling her what he'd really been searching for in the cavern under the citadel, and maybe worse, tell her that he'd not loitered long at the pool's edge after she'd disappeared under the surface. Was it a lack of hope that had taken him from her side, or a desperation to complete the task set for him by his guardian? To finish what they had started there?
Juda roused himself from his thoughts as she walked into the bath chamber, peeling her sodden undertunic from her skin, and dropping it to the floor.
There was no sweet musk and redberry here—Roth had never been one for perfumed oils and such luxury—but there was damson soap, and the subtle, fruit-infused scent was a familiarity that Juda hadn't realised he'd missed so much since living in the novice barracks.
The bath itself was no grand thing like that of Mica Koh-Miralus' house, it was just a free-standing marbled basin, large enough that the people of Grimefell would stare at it in envy, and more so at the waters it contained. Even Juda had the decency to hold a sense of shame to look at the water he had warmed, knowing that just yestertide he had slaughtered those who had fought with him to possess such as this.
Kneeling at the head of the bath, he watched Elara remove the last of her clothing, his gaze finding that wound on her back he had stitched with a hot needle and silk thread when they had returned here not so long ago. He'd left her lying on her stomach on his bed, recovering from the pain of the stitching, her breath like the shallow whimpers of a wounded animal, as he'd come to heat the water. This time, he'd had no velam root to give her to dullen the pain and it had taken until the bath had finally been filled for her soft gasps to fade.
Even now, with roughly stitched flesh and violet quartz and blood staining her skin, the Naiad was exquisite, and he couldn't prevent the way his breath caught in his throat, nor how his cock hardened at her nakedness. The candlelight flickered shadows over her body and he was suddenly jealous of their dark touch upon her skin.
She settled into the water, easing herself into it, her eyes closed as she gripped the sides of the bath and allowed her body to relax. When she opened them again, her gaze finding his—because he simply could not look away—his desire stirred him to his feet and he undressed, enjoying the way she explored him with her eyes.
Lowering himself into the bath, he leant his back against the opposite edge, resting his arms on either side, one knee raised, the other leg stretched out so that his foot brushed her hip. She ignored him then, reaching for the soap and laboriously running it up her arms, rubbing it over her skin in small, gentle, languid circles. It was maddening to watch, a cock-stirring agony that felt so fucking good he had half a mind to reach between his legs and touch that which ached only for her hands, her mouth, for the sweet heat between her thighs.
He recognised then, that while she was beautiful, she was never more so than when she was in the water. It should have coaxed fear, not this deep, aching arousal, to see an elemental witch with the power of the water at her fingertips, a power he knew could force his head under the surface and fill his lungs to bursting. Yet all he could see was flashes of her in the cavern, binding his wrists and ankles with the water. All he could see was her over him, her thighs pressed into his hips. All he could see was Koh-Miralus bound in the same way, the witch triumphant as she gazed down at him, the water pooling in the dip of her collarbone, glistening crystal beads upon her wet skin.
Her gaze snapped back to him, a small smile tugging on her mouth, and he realised that he had reached down, his hand palming his cock under the water. The Juda Vikaris he had been before her, would have smiled back, arrogant, and over-confident, but he could only return her stare and hope that the desperation and hunger he felt for her lingered not in his face.
With a sigh that licked at his balls, she placed the soap onto the ledge behind her and let her hand drop to his foot under the water, her delicate fingers dancing over his ankle bone.
"Say it, Juda," she said. "Say what you want."
"What I want?" He was stalling. He knew what he wanted, but to voice it out loud? Confess to the images that had plagued his every waking moment since he'd watched her kill the silk merchant?
She tilted her head to the side, chiding him with a raise of her brow. "I doubt you have ever denied yourself before. Why do it now? I think we are done with keeping secrets, don't you?"
Maybe she was, but Juda wasn't and the shame bit him harder than he thought it would.
Her hand moved to his shin. Her thumb brushing the same languid circles as she had done with the soap.
"Shall I tell you a secret, novice?"
Her voice was a whisper now, rich and arousing, warming his body more than the water was.
She inched closer, sliding her hand up his leg, her fingers finding the soft, sensitive skin behind his knee and feeling her way along the crease and back again. Juda gripped himself under the water, desperate to hold his growing excitement at bay.
"I enjoy it, Juda. Feeling the water hold me, the strength of it as I command it to do my bidding. I felt it that tide when I dragged Luca Zar-Kuron into the Setalah and held him under the surface. I enjoyed it even more when I captured Mica Koh-Miralus and watched his lust turn into terror. The thrill of killing them both...because they deserved it." She caught the flesh of her lip between her teeth. Eyes dark and brimming with heat. "Kelena thinks me monstrous. What think you? Do you think me a monster?"
Juda exhaled slow. "No more monstrous than I."
Something flickered in her gaze—something unreadable, a glimmer of irritation, he thought. Perhaps she had not sought his approval, after all, but for him to recoil from her confession? To denounce her, just as her friend had denounced her? It would give her a reason to put a stop to this, whatever this strange, dark, dangerous thing was between them. But then her fingers found the back of his thigh, stroking him there, and his thirst for her soared.
"Tell me," she said. "What did you think when you watched me kill him? Because you were watching me, were you not?"
Juda tightened his grip on the side of the bath, and himself. "That I'd never seen anything so beautiful. So powerful."
What the fuck was she doing to him? Was this a part of her magic too? Luring him in with some invisible sorcery, spells cast on the whisper of her breath?
"Me, or what I did?"
"Both," he shot back, knowing that if he didn't say it quickly then, he'd never be able to say it at all.
She was closer now. She could have reached out and touched him under the water. Covered his hand with her own. Instead, she just watched him, her lips slightly parted, tongue visible—the same tongue he wished he could suck into his mouth, overlap with his own.
"Then tell me what you want," she said.
She knew what he wanted. That much he understood.
He moved the hand that was under the water back to rest on the edge of the bath. Had he ever felt this seen? This exposed? Oddly, he found he didn't hate it. And Juda had always hated for people to see him. Not what he was on the surface, of course, but the parts of him he liked to keep hidden in the shadows.
"I want you to bind me with the waters. My wrists. I want that."
He could scarce believe he'd said the words.
"Won't you be scared, novice?"
Fuck, but how he loved it when she taunted him, like some sweet torture that reached inside and engulfed his bones in fire.
"No," he lied. Because he knew he would be a little, but wasn't that the point? To tap into something inside him that needed that kind of fear, something that would grip him by the balls and make him feel alive—or at least, something other than the detachment that had started creeping in under his skin before he had known she even existed.
She slid away from him, and for one awful, ice-numbing moment, he thought he'd fucked it up, that she'd seen through his lie—because she saw it, he knew she did—and had decided not to give him what he so badly wanted. But then, with her eyes closed, she leant back against the basin, almost mirroring his pose, except her hands were moving—delicate curls of her fingers, small turns of her wrists as if she were a weaver at a loom.
She pulled and curled, and Juda watched, his breath quickening, as the water began to seep up the sides of the bath, tiny rivers that reminded him of those that had crept around his feet in the Naiad temple. His heart thudded harder as they reached where his wrists rested on the edge.
"You can tell me to stop, Juda," the witch said, and he dragged his gaze briefly from where the waters were now snaking around his wrists, long tendrils rising from the surface to bind his arms.
"Say it, and I'll stop."
"No," he murmured, then again, louder, "no, don't stop."
These bindings were more delicate-looking than those she'd conjured in the cavern when they'd first met, but he could still feel how strong they were, still feel their grip tighten on his wrists. As if he sought to test it, he pulled, using his feet to push his body back, the muscles in his arms straining against the liquid rope. It was no good. The witch had him, and the thought of that, the thought of not being able to escape from her sent a thrumming pulse straight to his cock.
Elara moved forward, the waters swooshing around her body. She was a predator, of that there was no doubt, a monster in the candlelight, but his mouth watered at the sight of her as she climbed onto his lap, positioning herself halfway down his thighs.
Looking down into his face, she slid her fingers into his hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. He groaned as she licked upwards from his collarbone, along his jawline with her soft, wet tongue, nipping at his chin, finally catching the flesh of his bottom lip, and sucking it into her mouth. Her tongue flickered at his teeth and the images in his head merged with those of his childhood nightmares—the face of a goddess with a serpent's tongue and needle teeth. Blood surged in his temples and between his thighs. A pulsing, agonising rush of noise that made him gasp.
Elara pulled back, her gaze dropping, lazy hot and slow down his chest. Bending her head, she grazed her lips over one of his nipples, laughing softly when he hissed with pleasure. She pulled on it with her mouth and he pushed his knees against the edge of the tub, bucking up his hips.
By the dead gods, he needed her now. He needed her on him, he needed to be inside her, buried as far as he could go, her mouth upon his, hands fisted in his hair.
Cocking her head, she studied him, his face, his body, as if he was indeed her prey, and he knew then what she had meant when she'd told him how much she enjoyed it. She loved the power it afforded her to have a man at her mercy, to feel strong and energised from seeing him squirm and writhe beneath—whether from fear or pleasure, he doubt it mattered. Maybe her friend had been right. Maybe Elara was a monster, but he found that didn't matter to him, because he'd never wanted anyone more, never thirsted for anyone like this.
When she finally did reach down and run her hand over his cock, he groaned out her name in pained whispers—pained because this truly was excruciating in how fucking incredible it felt.
She brushed her thumb over the head—those tiny fucking circles again—before slowly stroking all the way to the base and back up. Once. Twice. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't bear how it made him want to pull her onto him but couldn't because his hands were bound to the edge, his fingers gripping the marble.
"Stop." He was breathing hard now, his chest rising and falling, throat ragged sore. "That...stop that. I want you to...I need to fuck you." Anger was flaring strong and hot inside him. Something feral and monstrous that was desperate to be unleashed.
Elara kissed the pain from his lips, licking into his mouth with soft strokes. "Hmm," she whispered, with a smile. "I think you'll find I'm the one who's going to fuck you."
Sliding down his thighs, she raised herself onto her knees, holding his cock in one hand and guiding herself onto him, slow, a soft moan escaping her parted lips. The noise he made came from the back of his throat, deep and gruff and vaguely animal as her heat gripped him, her hips rocking lazily against his. The water lapped at her waist as she moved, ripples cascading across the surface as she tugged on his hair again, her other hand reaching down between her legs.
She caressed herself for a short while, her gaze never leaving his captivated one, before pushing the same two fingers into his mouth. She was sea salt and damson. Desire and damnation. And he licked it all from her fingers, willingly, wanting more and yet feeling like it would never be enough.
She was too much; she was everything, and Juda loved and hated that all at once. He'd never needed anyone like he needed her, not like this. There'd never been anyone interesting enough, never been anyone who could hold his attention—no, capture it. She'd ensnared him, caught him and every moment he was in her clutches was like nothing he'd ever felt in his life. Perhaps it was sorcery. It fucking felt like it.
Her pace quickened, the friction building together with the pressure of her thrusts, and she braced her hand against the edge of the tub to help steady her as she ground her hips against his. She moved on him again and again, their gasps and moans echoing around the bath chamber, and he shifted underneath her, tipping her forward so her chest was pressed against his, and his mouth against her throat. She smelt good there, warm, beautiful, and the heady scent of her skin drowned him.
She'd been right, of course, she was fucking him, and he was lost in how completely overwhelming it felt to be at her mercy, to not be the one in control as he usually was.
He tried to find her mouth, desperate to taste her on his lips, but she twisted her face out of reach, instead holding back her wet hair to expose that point behind her ear that he always spent far too much time thinking about. Slicking his tongue along the delicate folds of skin, she shivered and bore down harder, the ebb and flow of their rhythm building, the water sloshing over the sides of the bath.
"Harder," she urged, and he covered the folds with his mouth, pulling and sucking on the tender flesh until she was bucking against him, one hand clutching at the back of his head.
"Fuck," he groaned into her skin, feeling the heat increasing. "F-fuck, yes..."
He couldn't stop it then, couldn't do anything to control it as she moved on him harder, faster, gasping his name over and over and suddenly he was spilling up into her, hands braced on the edges, hips jerking. And then she was crying out, thrusting down upon him, her muscles squeezing around his cock, her moans a raw, low aching sound that filled every part of him that had been empty and cold for so long.
When finally, they were still, and the movement of the water had calmed with their exhausted bodies, Elara released him from the binds, dropping her forehead to his chest and Juda did the one thing that Clova Dell's girls could never have boasted to the slum rats of Grimefell about.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, pressing soft kisses to the top of her head and didn't let her go until the water had cooled around them, and Roth's call roused them both from this thing that suddenly didn't feel quite as strange and as dark and as dangerous after all.