Chapter 4 A Baptism of Ice

Linus Kerr's private bathroom was as massive and sterile as a cathedral's morgue.

The walls were clad in polished obsidian tiles that, to Lillian's overloaded senses, radiated a deep, grounding chill. There were no useless decorations-only stark, silver pipes and glass partitions polished so fiercely they were practically invisible. The air was heavy with the scent of high-end soap and the underlying, perennial frost of the Tower.

"Clean yourself up."

Linus dropped her at the threshold like a piece of discarded contraband, his hand still anchored to the Cold-Iron chain. With a casual, humiliating flick of his wrist, he looped the end of the leash around the heavy brass door handle. The metallic clink was a sharp, final knell: she was no longer a citizen of Pyre City; she was a pet on a short tether.

"You have twenty minutes," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "Don't try anything clever-there are anti-magic runes buried beneath every tile. They'll detect a spark before you can even think it."

With that, he turned on his heel. The heavy oak door groaned shut, sealing her in a silence so thick it felt physical.

Lillian slumped against the wood, sliding down until she hit the floor. Only now, in the absolute quiet, did she witness her own wreckage. The woman in the mirror was a ghost. Her once-exquisite linen dress was a ruined rag of mud and acid-burned holes, clinging to her feverish curves. Her silver-grey hair was plastered to her cheeks like dead seaweed.

But the most glaring thing was the brand at her throat. The copper button nestled in the hollow of her collarbone, threaded by that biting Cold-Iron chain.

Lillian's hand trembled as she reached up, her fingernails clawing at the edge of the collar, desperate to find a seam, a weakness.

Sizzle-

"Ah!"

The moment she applied force, a bolt of agony-as if her very bone marrow were being shattered by ice-exploded through her skull. It was the Cold-Iron's automated punishment for defiance. It was a dead knot. Unless Linus chose to release her, she was marked for life.

"Bastard..." she hissed through gritted teeth, tears of physiological pain pricking her eyes.

She had to bathe. The filth and the skyrocketing internal heat were driving her toward a psychotic break. She struggled out of the sodden dress, her skin feeling raw and exposed. When the fabric finally fell away, the unrestrained magic heat surged through her like a solar flare.

Naked and shivering, she stumbled into the walk-in shower and fumbled with the controls.

Whoosh-

The water erupted.

"Ngh-!" Lillian shrieked, recoiling into the corner.

Hot. To her hyper-sensitive skin, water that would have been pleasant for a normal person felt like boiling oil. A terrifying crimson rash broke out across her shoulders instantly. She reached out to adjust the valve, but between the blurring black spots in her vision and the spasms in her fingers, she couldn't budge the heavy brass handle.

The scalding water continued to punish her. Steam rose in thick, suffocating clouds, turning the shower into a Victorian pressure cooker. Asphyxiation clawed at her throat. She slipped on the wet tile, the chain at her neck snapping taut as she fell, choking the very air from her lungs.

Just as the darkness began to swallow her-

BANG.

The bathroom door was thrown open.

Linus Kerr strode in. He had shed his trench coat, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the collar unfastened, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. Without a trace of hesitation, he walked directly into the spray. His black boots crunched against the tile, splashing through the rising water.

Lillian huddled in the corner, her arms wrapped tightly around her naked body in a futile attempt at modesty. Shame burned through her, a flush that rivaled her fever.

"Get out!" she screamed, though it came out as a broken whimper.

Linus didn't even blink. His gaze swept over her exposed body with a clinical, icy detachment-from her trembling shoulders to the frantic rise and fall of her chest, down to her long, shivering legs. There was no lust in his eyes-at least, none he allowed to surface. It was the look of a man inspecting a damaged piece of property.

"Can't even manage a simple faucet," he scoffed.

He reached over her head to grasp the valve. In this position, his chest was inches from her bare back. Lillian could smell the faint scent of tobacco on his skin and that signature, frigid aroma of cedarwood. He gave the valve a sharp, authoritative wrench.

The scalding heat died. It was replaced by a torrent of pure ice.

Lillian let out a shattered, breathy gasp. It wasn't pain; it was salvation. Her taut muscles went limp instantly. She felt herself melting into the floor; if it weren't for the wall, she would have collapsed.

Linus didn't move. He stood there under the freezing spray, letting the water drench his expensive silk shirt until it clung to his powerful frame like a second skin. He looked down at the woman at his feet, watching the water track down the elegant line of her spine, watching the copper button glint through the spray.

A strange, dark satisfaction hummed in his chest. He reached out.

Lillian flinched, but Linus merely extended two fingers, roughly wiping a smudge of mud from her cheek. The coarse texture of his calloused pads against her scorching skin sent a fresh jolt of electricity through her.

"Clean yourself thoroughly," his voice was low, rasping against the sound of the falling water. "I don't want the scent of the slums on my sheets."

With that, he cut the water. He snatched a massive white towel and draped it over her head, obscuring her trembling form. "Dry off. Come out."

Ten minutes later, Lillian drifted into the bedroom like a ghost, wrapped in the oversized towel.

The room was dimly lit by a single amber lamp. Linus was seated in an armchair by the mahogany bed, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had changed into a black silk robe, his damp hair making the sharp lines of his face look dangerously elegant.

"Clothes are on the bed," he said, not looking up.

Lillian looked at the massive, four-poster bed. Lying there was a neatly folded white dress shirt. His shirt.

"I don't keep women's clothing here," Linus took a slow sip of his drink. "Wear that, or stay naked. The choice is yours."

Lillian bit her lip. She snatched the shirt and turned her back to him, slipping into it with frantic haste. The shirt was enormous. The sleeves hung past her hands, and the hem fell well past mid-thigh, acting as a strange, improvised dress. The fabric was saturated with his scent-that frigid, overwhelming aura that felt like a brand.

Wearing her enemy's clothes filled her with a nauseating mix of shame and a terrifying sense of security.

"Come here," Linus commanded.

Lillian stayed rooted to the spot. "What do you want?"

Linus set his glass down and pointed to the rug at his feet. "If you don't want to sleep on the floor tonight, come here. Let me check your condition."

Lillian hesitated, then yielded. She walked over slowly, stopping right in front of him.

Linus reached out and took her slender wrist, pulling her closer until she was standing between his knees. The position was breathlessly intimate. He unbuttoned his cuff, exposing the frost-chilled skin of his inner wrist, and pressed it firmly against Lillian's scorching forehead.

A physical cooldown.

He maintained the posture, staring at her with a quiet, terrifying focus. Lillian could see her own reflection in his deep blue pupils-a prisoner in his shirt, wearing his collar, flushed and broken.

"Sleep, Lillian," Linus said after a long silence. His voice was soft, holding a trace of exhaustion. "Tonight, there are no hunters here."

He gestured toward the bed. "That is your place. Don't think about running. The chain is only long enough for you to move within this room."

Lillian didn't say thank you. She climbed into the bed, burying herself in the cool, dark sheets that smelled of him.

In the final second before sleep claimed her, a hazy thought drifted through her mind: This is just for survival. But her hand, acting on its own, tightened its grip on the collar of the shirt that belonged to him.