Jaenor slipped through the front door like a shadow, the house dark and silent around him.
He moved upstairs without a sound, boots silent on the carpeted steps. The living room was empty; the others were long abed.
He went to his room first. He stripped off the ruined shirt and pants, tossing them into the corner for later disposal. The shower was quick but thorough, scalding water blasting away the grime of battle, the scent of Druscilla's necromantic taint, and the coppery residue of vampire ichor.
Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror. He dried off roughly with a towel, wrapping it low around his hips, the fabric tenting slightly from the ever-present hum of his awareness of her.
Martha.
The pull drew him like gravity. He padded down the hall, barefoot, water droplets still tracing paths down his chiseled chest and abdomen.
The door to the master bedroom stood ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling through the curtains. He pushed it open silently, stepping inside.
