The sound Eliantra produced was not a word.
She came up out of the water.
The full height of her — the soaked nightgown clinging to every line of her body, her bra visible through the transparent cotton, the generous, full weight of her chest pressed against the fabric in a way that the wet material made no attempt to disguise — and she crossed the tub in three strides with the specific, focused energy of a woman who has decided to address a situation physically.
Her hands found his face.
Both palms. Flat against his cheeks. Her fingers at his jaw, holding him — not roughly, with the 'desperate' grip of someone trying to make eye contact with a person who has been avoiding providing it.
The grip forced his face toward hers.
His purple eyes, directly level with hers.
She was breathing.
