Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(41)

His hands encircle my waist from behind, unfastening my belt. The iron strap clangs against the floor. The leather of my pants is torn in several places, but it clings to me like a second skin. Strong fingers grasp the waistband on either side of my hips, tugging my pants down so I don’t have to bend. Hawthorne crouches behind me, easing them past my thighs and ankles. I step out of them.

Rising, Hawthorne stands behind me once more. Gently, he pulls my naked form against him, while his head bends to my throat. His lips are a whisper as he kisses my neck for a moment, and then his hand slides to my elbow, urging me toward the tub.

Goose bumps immediately break out on my flesh when I step into the water. “Hawthorne, this is completely sadistic.”

He chuckles and squeezes my elbow. “I promise I’ll warm you up when it’s over.” I lower myself into the water and hug my knees. After a minute, I force myself to lie back and rest against the slope of the tub. Hawthorne mumbles, “I’ll get you a robe.”

He leaves. The CR-40 begins to dissolve and peel from my hand. My silver moniker shines up, a sword slicing through the water. The crown-like shadow at the top of the sword appears to be riding on a cube of ice.

Hawthorne returns. My eyes devour him. He’s still shirtless, but he has changed from his Tyburn costume into a pair of long black pants. They hang loose on his hips, showing a deep V of rippling muscles. The sight of him should be enough to melt all the ice in this bath, but I continue to shiver.

The pain is nearly unbearable. My lips must be bluer than when he pulled me from the lake. I sit forward, my hands gripping the edge of the bath. “Had enough?” Hawthorne asks. I nod, my teeth rattling. He unfolds a black silk robe and holds it out for me. I climb over the edge of the tub. Water drips off me onto the floor. His arms embrace me, threading mine through the robe’s sleeves, which are way too long.

“Is this y-your r-robe?” I ask, trying to stifle a frigid tremor.

“Yes.”

“Are y-you aware that you h-have m-monster arms?” I let the fabric dangle to illustrate my point.

He grins. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

“They’re g-goonish.” I scrunch the fabric up so that my hands emerge. “I f-feel b-bad for y-you.”

“Maybe you have T. rex arms. Have you thought of that?”

“No one has m-mentioned it b-before.”

“I never wanted to bring it up. Can you sit on the edge of the tub?” he asks.

I nod, my teeth still chattering, and sit down with my back as straight as possible. From his pocket, Hawthorne extracts a bandage and a roll of medical tape. He kneels in front of me. Using a towel, he dries my chest and abdomen before wrapping the bandage around my rib cage and then binding it tight with the tape.

“This is old-fashioned,” I murmur. “They have laser fusion for broken ribs.”

Hawthorne grimaces. “I hate that surgery. I’d rather tape them. In my opinion, this hurts less. We used to do this instead of the invasive procedure at the Base. It takes longer to heal, though.” He pauses and his gaze meets mine. “I can’t do that surgery here. My medical drone isn’t equipped. I’d have to take you to a medical facility. Do you want me to?”

I frown. “No, they’ll separate us.”

“They’re going to do that anyway, Roselle. We’ll have to submit to questioning at some point, but I’m hoping to avoid it for as long as possible.”

“I’ve had the laser-fusion procedure done a few times. You’re right; it hurts like someone is soldering your guts. I’d rather you tape them instead.”

Hawthorne nods and resumes the work of bandaging my ribs. When he’s finished, he pulls the sides of the robe closed and ties the belt. His hands take mine, and he helps me to my feet. His fingers feel hot. The robe is too long. I look down at my hidden feet and the pool of fabric on the floor. “Giant,” I whisper.

His hands let go of mine. He cups my face and leans down to brush my lips with a tender kiss. “Your giant,” he whispers.

“Yes, my giant.” I deepen the kiss, even though my side aches unceasingly.

Sensing my pain, Hawthorne pulls away and takes one of my hands. We walk to his room. A tea urn, cups, and a tiered tray laden with petite sandwiches rest atop a hovering cart.

Hawthorne pours me a cup and offers it on a saucer. I ignore the saucer, lifting the delicate porcelain in my frigid grasp. It’s piping hot. I take a small sip, feeling its warmth all the way to my belly. He pours another cup for himself. We both devour the finger food, standing over the tray like heathens. A yawn escapes me.

Hawthorne takes my empty cup. With a hand on my back, he leads me to his bed. Gingerly, I climb in. I try to lie on my back, but it’s intolerable, so I turn onto my left side. There isn’t a comfortable position. “Do you want another pain reliever?” he asks. I nod. He gives me a tablet and some water. I swallow it and then lie back. Hawthorne settles in next to me, spooning me, careful to rest his arm on my hip instead of my ribs. The heat radiating from him is irresistible. I press my back firmly against his chest. He kisses my hair.

What we’re doing is a crime, a punishable offense. A secondborn in the same bed as a firstborn is even more taboo than two secondborns being caught together. Unless it’s a sanctioned encounter in a pleasure house—regulated, restricted to a one-time event, with no relationship or offspring resulting—it’s a violation of law. But this is intimacy. The deadliest crime. The penalty for me is much more severe than it would be for him. He’d pay a fine. I’d pay the price. The danger suits me. I thread my fingers through his.