Lucien grabbed a large, plush linen towel, wrapping it securely around Elian's shoulders. He didn't let go, his hands remaining on Elian's covered shoulders as he guided the trembling truth seeker out of the washroom and back into the dark expanse of the bedchamber.
The room was illuminated only by the dying embers of the hearth and the silver moonlight cutting through the window. It felt entirely different now—smaller, more dangerous, like a trap that had successfully sprung closed.
Lucien led him to the edge of the grand bed. With surprising gentleness that felt entirely contradictory to the harsh words he had spoken moments ago, Lucien began to dry him. He pressed the towel against Elian's damp skin, wiping away the water from his chest, his torso, and down his legs, careful to keep his movements steady so as not to aggravate the bandaged wrist resting weakly on the mattress.
