I begin with the waistcoat.

He's about two feet taller than my five-foot stature. I might have to stand on my tiptoes to undress him completely. However, it also means I can't see his face while unbuttoning his finely tailored vest.

With only a firm chest to look at, it's easy to imagine him as a mannequin and nothing more—especially with how cold his form is.

Despite the fireplace roaring, he lacks any warmth. He's not frigid, but he is...unsettling.

I've either gotten used to the Firehearts acting as strolling heaters or I simply never appreciated the warm-blooded attributes of humans. Whatever the case, the absence of ambient warmth surrounding Irving is disquieting in a way I can't fully explain.

Despite knowing everyone in this castle, except myself, can transform into a dragon, it is Irving's body temperature that really solidifies the fact he's inhuman.

I finish up with the buttons, and though his gaze is patronizing, he does roll his shoulders to help me slide off the waistcoat. I know many a noble who wouldn't bother lifting their arm to help with pulling off a sleeve.

I gladly accept this fragment of courtesy. It may not be much, but it helps soothe the boiling in my stomach.

I hang the garment in the wardrobe and then consider my next moves. I'm in no hurry to reach for his waist, but his shirt is tucked into his pants and should be long enough to cover his more intimate areas. Since I've heard some men go without undergarments, I'd rather work down there with a potential shield in place.

"Sir, please sit down so I may remove your boots."

I wait for him to tell me it's my job to undress him, and that he will not make my task easier. However, the lengthy dragonith takes one long stride over to the edge of Cephias's bed and sticks out his foot.

Resentment knots in my throat when I see him upon the mattress that has hosted unbound pleasure for Cephias and I. But I swallow it down and proceed with removing his boots and socks.

"Please stand, sir, so I may remove your trousers."

"No."

His answer is light and his smile challenging. As angry as I am with him, a part of me is more pissed with myself for assuming he'd continue to be accommodating.

"It will be difficult—"

"You can manage."

He is perched at the very edge of the mattress and leans back with his arms stretched behind him. With his weight on his palms, it shouldn't be that hard to tug his trousers down.

However, he'll have quite a view of me as I do it.

Whether I bend over him or kneel on the ground, the picture he'll be presented is not one I'd like to give to just any man.

After a moment's thought, I step over to the side of his leg and then settle myself down on one knee. I hear him chuckle as I navigate my way around his traps, but I keep myself steady.

I'm done playing the shy, terrified princess when we both know I'm not.

I use the very tips of my fingers to pull his belt from his buckle so that the least amount of me is touching him at any given moment. Then, with one powerful tug, I relinquish the leather belt. I rise to my feet once again to stow the accessory away and to get a moment of space before contesting with the buttons of his trousers.

Back beside his leg, I watch his taut stomach rise and fall beneath his shirt. I try to match my breath with his, so I appear just as calm and unconcerned. I also say a small prayer to the gods, asking them to make this process quick and painless.

The decision to proceed is like a match struck. I don't hesitate in my movements. My fingers fly over the buttons—my attempts fumbling, but brief. Once the fasteners are free, I take hold of the fabric on either side of his hips and yank the pants down. With eyes fixated on the garment's progress down his legs, I don't see his groin long enough to tell if he's wearing underwear.

With his trousers removed, I pop off the ground and head back over to the wardrobe.

"That was rather rough. You could have damaged my pants."

There is amusement in his voice, and I ignore his concerns.

"I have always been served and have never been the one to serve. I am learning as I go, my lord."

"Perhaps I'll need to teach you. Whoever buys you will want a subservient pet."

His voice is louder than I expect, and I turn to find him only feet away, having crossed the room without making a whisper of noise.

"Of course." I bat my eyes and bow my head in deference—and to hide my annoyance. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my lord, I will remove your shirt."

I glance down to find his shirt tails guarding his hips, as well as a pair of warm woolen drawers that stop just short of his knee. I breathe easier and my hands are steady when I reach for his top button.

He then snatches my hand away before I even touch his collar.

"What is this smell?"

He pulls me up by my wrist, running my fingers beneath his long nose. I stand on tiptoes while every muscle strains along that side of my body.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

I pray he attributes my trembling voice to my precarious stance and not to the images flashing through my head, which remind me of how Cephias's blood painted my hands only a couple of hours ago.

"It's not quite floral. There's a bit of a tang to it."

My breath gushes from my lungs, and my body goes limp in his hold.

"Oh, that's the soap I use. One of the Firehearts makes all the soaps and lotions with foraged flora. I like to use the snowberry one."

"Is that it, then?" His smirk is friendly, but his eyes are menacing. "What color are snowberries?"

"I believe red, my lord."

"I suppose that explains things."

He releases my wrist and I nearly fall to the floor, my legs weaker than I realized.

"Well, get on with it. I'd like to have my bath."

"Right, of course."

I shake my head and reach back up. It's then that I notice the bit of red collected beneath my nail, barely visible against my pink fingertips.

My mouth goes dry, and I glance up at Irving's icy blue eyes.

"Do not make me ask you again. Finish with my shirt."

"Yes, my lord."

My hands shake as I work my way down. I find a woolen undershirt clings tight to his toned physique.

I desperately want to look back up at Irving, hoping to find him apathetic so I can fool myself into believing my fears are unsubstantiated. However, the water lord's gaze will offer me a barren chill that will freeze my hope completely. So I study the curves of his musculature, keeping my eyes on my task.

Unfortunately, my steady focus upon his torso still gains his notice.

"How do I compare to Cephias?"

"I...I wouldn't know, my lord. The only dragon that has touched me is the one that's brought me to and from my cell."

"It's not dragon, it's dragonith, pet." He takes hold of my chin and forces my eyes to his. "You better remember that."

"Of course, my lord."

"I mean it. I want you to prove you can remember things, since you seem to have already forgotten that I dislike lies."

The blink of my watery eyes, the knot in my throat, and the tremble in my hands are no longer an act.

"If you keep lying," he continues, his grip tightening so his nails dig into my skin, "things will not end well for you."

I'm frozen in place, yet my defiance still finds voice.

"I'm a princess, my lord. My life was never going to end well. I'm just a pawn moved from one jail cell to another. Even gilded cages are a prison."

For a moment, we stand unmoving. His hand on my chin and my breath trapped in my lungs.

"May I get back to my work and finish with your shirt?"

"No, you may not." Despite his answer, he releases his hold. "Go start the bath. I'll finish the rest myself."

He steps away and turns to unbutton his shirt.

I don't need to be told twice, so I dash off to the bathroom to start the tap.

Though I don't have the fire breath like Cephias's clan to heat the bath, there is a boiler room in the castle's basement that sends up hot water. It'd be hotter if it didn't have to travel all the way up the tower, but hopefully it will do. Otherwise, I'll have to ask a Fireheart to warm the tub and I'm not sure Irving will allow such assistance.

I glance at the doorway and find Irving out of sight. I rush over to the corner cabinet and pull out a roll of cosmetic tools. Once I've found a good pick, I use it to clear the remnants of blood beneath my nail.

"Not particularly warm, is it?"

I jump, and my hip strikes the corner of the cabinet. The pain hisses through my teeth while the cupboard rattles and the bottles clink. My hands brace against the edge, steadying both the cabinet and myself.

"I'm sorry, my lord."

I keep my back to him, rolling up the tools before he can see them. Once it's stowed away, I glance over my shoulder to look at the man settled into the curve of the tub.

"I can go get a Fireheart to heat the—"

"Do not insult my abilities, human."

With that warning in place, the water begins to bubble and steam. He sighs and sinks in deeper, so his long hair fans out around him.

"Did...did you heat that water?"

"Are you going to bring me soap?"

I nod and turn back to my work.

"I want the snowberry one that smelled so good on your hands."

Each drag of my breath burns my dry throat and the noose I've slipped over my own neck tightens.

He knows. He knows.

The words repeat over and over in my head, drowning out the commands I'm sending to my hands. After a few fumbling grabs, though, I finally secure a few soaps, including the pale red bar scented with snowberry.

"Here you go, my lord."

I place them on the small table beside the tub while keeping my eyes on the ground. Even if I do accidentally peer into the clear bath water, however, my thoughts are likely too frenzied to notice whatever might wait beneath the surface.

"Are you just going to stand there?"

"I can step outside and give you privacy, my lord."

"It will be hard for you to bathe me from outside the bathroom."

I blink a few times, registering his words as his cold eyes freeze me in place. Then it clicks and I realize what he wants.

I bow my head and grab a nearby stool. Placing it at the head of the tub, I look over at the bottles and bars I lined up by the bath.

"The hot springs may have been a good soak for the bones, but it did nothing to clean the sweat and grime from my long flight over the ocean." He sighs and drifts deeper into the water. "Start with my hair."

I fish his long, silky strands of silver from the water and massage the ends with soap. The work of my hands and the stillness of his tongue quiets my mind. However, he must have an innate sense for my discomfort because the second I allow my heart to beat at leisure, he breaks the silence.

"How could you suggest there was anyone else who could heat this water? I'm a Waterheart. What exactly do you think we do?"

"I don't know, my lord. I know nothing of your people or powers."

"What did I tell you about lying?"

"I'm not."

My answer is firm and the slick hair slides through my grip when he looks back at my unyielding expression. When he turns to face the tub again, I take that as my sign to return to my work.

I massage and cleanse his scalp, then I grab a bottle of snowberry oil to comb through his locks.

"It's nothing like this."

His words stop my hands for a beat.

"What is?"

"This place. My home is flat and vast. The sun meets the land and a rainbow of color springs forth, both at rise and set. We live in an oasis with lush groves and sunny days. Waterhearts don't burrow into rock to escape our surroundings, instead our homes are bright and airy. We spend more time out in our courtyards than beneath a roof."

My fingers work through the strands, rubbing in the oil from root to tip. My progress is slow as I picture his world.

"This place is miserable."

He spits out his words, though it feels like a declaration to the gods rather than an assertion shared with me.

"My hair may be long, but you should be done by now."

"Sorry."

I slide over the last remaining strands before grabbing a block of soap. I begin work on his shoulders, hopeful my willingness to play his servant will draw more words from him.

"I wish these witless fire breathers would learn to herd your people better. I loathe these accommodations."

My teeth bite down and stop my tongue from waging war. Instead, I get back to the task at hand and progress from his shoulders to his back. I'm both grateful and disappointed that Irving has no more to add to the conversation.

I work in silence, keeping my eyes on whatever patch of skin I've moved to. However, it's not long before I've covered everything above the water and I glance at the soapy surface marring my view of what lies below.

"For all the gods' sakes, I told you I'm not interested in humans. You fumbling around my cock won't be any different than you fumbling with any of my other appendages." His words are an agitated growl and my body stiffens with fear. But then he sighs and continues in a cooler tone. "That being said, my life partner will kill me if I let a human anywhere near what is hers. Just give me that soap."

I don't argue. I hand over the lump of soap and rise from my stool.

"Go, wash up and get dressed for bed."

I want to ask him if it is his—really Cephias's—bed that I will sleep in, but every minute I live in ignorance is a minute to treasure. So I place a towel for him on my stool and dart out of the bathroom.

Once I have prepared for the night, I open up his wardrobe in search of night garments. The closet is brimming, and I wonder how difficult it was for his companions to carry their trunks over the ocean.

I spot a long woolen nightshirt and slippers. With them tucked in my arms, I plan to dash in and deposit them before he steps out of the tub. However, I hear the drain emptying and when I turn, I see the entire expanse of the man's lean, towering figure except for the area guarded by the towel wrapped around his waist.

"Leave those on the bed and get the fire going. Once you're done, you may sleep at the foot of the bed, but I expect you to be up routinely to keep the flames high. If you don't, I have no qualms with bruising you in places where no one can see."

There is no playfulness in his voice. I look between the lightly padded chaise at the end of the bed and the heavily stocked fireplace.

It's going to be a long night.