Camilla's POV...
"That was my sister."
His voice cut through the post-coital haze like a blade of ice. I watched, still naked and sprawled across the rumpled sheets, as Lucian moved to the edge of the bed and stood. He moved with a stiffness that betrayed his injury, but his posture was all rigid control.
He reached for the pair of simple linen pants that had been draped over a chair, stepping into them with a wince he tried to hide. They hung low on his sharp hips. The pristine white bandage on his shoulder had shifted during our frantic coupling. A small, ominous spot of pink—the color of a watered-down rose—had seeped through the gauze, a vivid stain against the white.
I said nothing. My mind, still swimming with the scent of him and the aftershocks of pleasure, was trying to catch up.
"I think before we meet her, we should bathe," he said, his voice flat, all business now. The lover was gone, replaced by the strategist. "Get cleaned up."
