Page 36 of ColdIron
Guided by the sentient metal, feeling the pathways through the pipes like veins in a body, I found the mechanism and got the water running.
Hot water.
I smiled.
Steaming, cascading, glorious hot water filled the tub in a rush, sending clouds of steam billowing toward the ceiling.
I stripped off my filthy rug-clothes and the rough chest-binding beneath them, then stepped in before the tub was even half full. The heat hit my skin and sank straight through to my bones. My muscles—knotted from years of labor, a week of running and fighting and interrogation—loosened all at once. I gripped the edge to keep from sliding under. The warmth wrapped around me, and I bit my lip to keep from moaning.
This was another taste of heaven.
The shelves beside the tub held an array of soaps that smelled of cedar, rain, and mint. I tried every one. I lathered and scrubbed and rinsed and lathered again, working my fingers through my cropped hair until the water ran clear instead of brown. I scraped grime from under my nails, rubbed every inch until my skin turned pink, until I felt like a person instead of some creature that had crawled out of a hole in the ground.
Coldiron helped me refill the tub with clean hot water. Three times. Each time, the water ran out ashade lighter, and each fresh batch of water felt even more incredible than the last.
I could have stayed there forever. But the vampire outside had probably run out of patience by now. I could still feel his presence, his strong vampire magic a bright, cool point in the matrix of my mind. This awareness—once muffled in the mines—sharpened with every day I spent away from the tunnels.
When I finally stepped out, I dried off with one of the towels hanging from a brass rack. The cotton was so soft I pressed it to my face and held it there, breathing in the clean scent, feeling the texture against my clean skin.
I padded to the full-length mirror and wiped the steam away with one hand.
The person staring back was almost a stranger.
Eyes like midnight stars, brighter now. High cheekbones, less stark than a week ago now that I’d been fed, even in the holding cell. Long, dark eyebrows. Lashes too thick and long for a boy. A straight nose. Pale pink lips, still a little chapped but healing.
If I didn’t have that hard, angular look—the set of my jaw, the sharpness in my eyes that came from years of fighting—I couldn’t easily pass as a man. Soften my expression, let my hair grow, and the disguise would dissolve.
My gaze dipped to my chest. Shit. My breasts were even larger and fuller now, the skin smooth and flushed from the hot water. I’d never really looked at myself until this moment. Never had a mirror, or the time, or the safety. A low ache stirred between my thighs, a needbeginning to wake, and I didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.
I tore my gaze away. I needed to get out of here instead of becoming a wallowing fool I couldn’t afford to be.
As I pulled my things from the rucksack, something tumbled out I hadn’t put there.
I picked it up and turned it over. A chest-binder that was nothing like my rough, homemade one. This was properly constructed, with strong yet flexible material, smooth seams, and adjustable fastenings. It would compress without cutting into my skin. Hold through a full day of training without slipping or chafing.
Nikolai had prepared this.
He’d given me the rucksack knowing I’d find it here, in private. This small, precise act of care—he’d thought about my situation and done something about it without being asked.
I knew he had his agenda. Still, I was grateful.
I wrapped my old binder and the miner’s rag into a tight roll and tossed them in the trash. Then I put on the new one. It fit like it was made for me. Snug but not suffocating. I pulled on the casual wear and boots.
Then I opened the bathroom door and stepped out.
My breath caught. My blood heated.
Nikolai leaned against the wall beside an archway leading into another room, a glass of liquid in his hand—wine or blood, I couldn’t tell. He’d showered too. His ash-blond hair was still damp, a lock falling over the corner of one crimson eye. He’d traded his oxblood dress uniform for a dark navy shirt that stretched across thehard planes of his chest, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, baring pale forearms roped with muscle. Dark slacks sat low on his hips and hugged his powerful thighs.
My heart pounded as I took him in. The vampire was trying to seduce me, and I couldn’t deny his effect.
He had a remarkable build, but that wasn’t what held my attention. It was the way he carried himself, not cocky, but utterly at ease. A man completely comfortable in his own skin who wouldn’t apologize for being a predator that needed blood to survive. I envied that. I felt awkward in my own body—playing a boy when I wasn’t, constantly aware that three of the four heirs knew my secret, always bracing for impact in case the disguise failed.
“Well, Prince Nikolai, you dressed up for nothing,” I said. “No matter how good you look, I’m not offering you my blood today.”
Even as I said it, my core clenched. I desperately wanted to ease the ache, and I didn’t even know how.
He smiled. “I don’t expect it, Max. I wouldn’t take it before you’re nourished.” He took a slow sip from his glass. “It satisfies me to do things for you. And it delights me that you approve of my looks.”
