Sarisa closed the door softly behind her, setting the room apart from the rest of the palace and its unending burdens.
The hush that followed was deep, warm, a small refuge against the weight of the world outside.
As she stepped closer, she found Lara awake, propped up on a stack of pillows, watching the shifting dusk through half-lidded eyes.
Lara glanced over and, for the first time since waking, gave a real smile—a crooked, mischievous thing, familiar and a little daring.
Sarisa felt heat rise in her chest, a blend of relief and nerves that left her uncharacteristically breathless.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, voice pitched low.
She set aside the pitcher of water and towels she'd brought, unable to keep her eyes from lingering on Lara's face—the strong line of her jaw, the stubborn spark in her gaze, the vulnerable exhaustion that made her seem, impossibly, even braver.
Lara's smile faded to something softer. "Honestly? I feel like I wrestled a dragon and only barely came out the winner. My arm's on fire, but otherwise…" She shrugged with her good shoulder, wincing only a little.
Sarisa hesitated. She didn't want to press, but the truth was plain: Lara needed a bath, needed the remnants of battle dried blood, smoke, the scent of pain washed away.
But she wanted it to be Lara's choice, not just another command from a queen or a healer.
"You should have a bath," Sarisa said gently. "You'll feel better. The… blood, the sweat, everything. I can help, if you want. Or I can send someone else—"
Lara cut her off with a tired, crooked grin. "No need. If you're offering, I trust you more than any palace maid. Help me?"
Sarisa's pulse stuttered, a thrill she hadn't expected jolting through her. She nodded, her voice suddenly rougher than she'd meant. "All right. Let's get you clean."
The palace bathing chamber was a world apart from the stark, utilitarian tubs of the barracks or the cold streams of the wilds.
Marble walls caught the glow of a dozen enchanted lamps, their light flickering soft and golden.
Steam rose from the great sunken bath, filling the room with the scent of jasmine and sweet herbs. There was nothing sharp here, nothing dangerous just comfort, warmth, and the low, secret sound of water.
Sarisa helped Lara to her feet, steadying her with an arm around her waist. Even weakened, Lara's body felt impossibly strong beneath her touch muscle tense and hot, skin fever-warm beneath bandages and scars.
Every step was careful, their movements slow, as if time had finally chosen to move at their pace.
When they reached the edge of the bath, Lara stopped and glanced down at herself—a rueful smile tugging her mouth. "I must look a mess."
Sarisa's reply was immediate, honest. "You look like a survivor. Like someone who's lived a thousand stories, and won every one."
Lara let Sarisa untie her robe, moving gingerly to avoid pulling at the healing wounds. As the fabric fell away, Sarisa took in the full map of Lara's body—a landscape of muscle, defined and lean, scars crossing her torso like silver rivers.
Each one with its own tale. Her abs were defined, sharply cut beneath the fading bruises, her chest broad and strong, hips and thighs corded with the strength of a hundred battles.
The sight nearly undid Sarisa. Heat rose up her neck, flooding her cheeks. She tried not to stare, but failed—her eyes drawn helplessly from the cut of Lara's waist to the hard curve of her shoulders, to the scars that marked her not as damaged, but as indomitable.
Lara caught the look, her mouth curving into a lazy, knowing smirk. "See something you like, Your Highness?"
Sarisa snorted, embarrassed and delighted all at once. "You're impossible."
Lara grinned, but behind it was a rare vulnerability—a willingness to be seen, whole and unguarded.
Sarisa's fingers trembled as she guided Lara down into the steaming water, lowering her gently so the heat could seep into her battered muscles.
Lara hissed, more from pleasure than pain, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth worked its magic. She sank lower, water lapping at her collarbones, hair curling damp at her nape.
Sarisa knelt behind her, careful of the injured arm. She dipped a cloth in the water, running it gently over Lara's back, tracing the long planes of muscle with practiced care.
The work was slow, almost reverent—cleansing away the last traces of battle, honoring every scar and story written on Lara's skin.
Lara's breathing slowed, the tension bleeding out of her with every careful touch. "That feels… gods, Sarisa. I could get used to this."
Sarisa's hands slid lower, sweeping over Lara's shoulders, across her chest, down the line of her abs.
Her touch was firm but gentle, working away the dried blood and sweat, learning every curve and edge as if for the first time. The water steamed, their breaths mingling in the close, scented air.
For a moment, Sarisa forgot everything but this: the feel of Lara's skin, the heat between them, the unspoken promise shimmering in every brush of her fingers. She found herself tracing one of the old scars, a pale slash across Lara's ribs.
"Where did you get this one?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lara turned her head, their faces only inches apart. "First campaign. Swordfight with a mercenary who didn't know when to quit. I let him live, though."
Sarisa smiled, her thumb brushing over the mark. "Of course you did."
Her hands lingered at Lara's waist, fingers splaying over taut muscle, feeling the play of strength and fragility beneath. Lara's good hand reached back, catching Sarisa's, squeezing gently.
"Thank you," Lara murmured. "For this. For not giving up on me."
Sarisa's heart beat wild in her chest. She pressed a soft kiss to Lara's shoulder, lips lingering, savoring the salt of skin and the clean, bright taste of survival.
"You're not so easy to give up on," Sarisa whispered. "Even when you make it hard."
Lara laughed—a deep, low rumble that made Sarisa shiver. "That's what everyone says. But you… you always come back."
Their eyes met in the steam, the silence thick with things unsaid. Sarisa reached for the soap, working it into a gentle lather, washing Lara's hair with the same care, her fingers massaging the scalp, nails scraping lightly.
Lara tilted her head back, surrendering fully for once, trusting Sarisa to hold her together.
The intimacy of it undid them both. Each touch lingered a little longer than necessary. Each accidental brush of skin set sparks racing beneath Sarisa's skin.
She rinsed Lara's hair, the water running dark with old blood, then clean and bright. She couldn't help herself—her hands traced the strong column of Lara's throat, the hollow of her collarbone, the broad sweep of her chest.
When Lara's good hand covered Sarisa's, anchoring her, the message was clear. I'm here. I want this. I want you.
Sarisa bent, pressing a kiss to Lara's temple, then her jaw. Lara turned, their lips meeting—soft, searching, urgent and sweet. The kiss was salt and fire, a promise and a plea, an answer to all the questions Sarisa had never dared ask.
The world narrowed to the heat of the bath, the slide of skin, the way Lara shivered not from pain but from something far more dangerous.
Sarisa pulled back, breathless, her forehead pressed to Lara's. "If we keep this up, I'll never let you out of here."
Lara's smirk was all challenge. "I'm not complaining. But I am starting to prune."
Sarisa laughed, relief and longing crashing through her. She ran the cloth one final time over Lara's body, careful of wounds, gentling every bruise, every scar. The steam wrapped around them like a secret, hiding them from the world.
When the water cooled, Sarisa helped Lara from the bath, drying her with a thick towel, marveling again at the strength that radiated from her, even battered and healing.
Lara leaned in, lips brushing Sarisa's ear. "Thank you. For everything."