They didn't enter through the main halls.
Freya noticed that immediately.
The path Soren chose was quieter.
The knights peeled away without question.
No escort beyond the outer corridor.
Freya didn't comment.
But she noticed.
"…Avoiding an audience?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Soren didn't look at her as he pushed open a side door.
"I don't require one," he replied.
The room beyond was dimly lit.
Not his throne room.
Not anywhere public.
His chambers.
Freya stilled slightly.
"…This feels unnecessary."
Soren stepped inside first, then turned back toward her.
"You're injured," he said.
"That didn't seem to matter earlier."
Soren's gaze flickered—briefly.
Then steadied.
"It mattered," he said.
Freya didn't respond to that.
She stepped inside anyway.
The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.
And just like that—
the outside world disappeared.
Then, finally—
he lowered her carefully onto the bed.
Freya shifted slightly, testing her weight again.
Pain flared—sharp enough to make her inhale.
he turned.
"Stay," he said.
Freya blinked slightly.
"…Where are you—"
But he was already moving.
Moments later—
she heard it.
Water.
Freya frowned faintly, shifting slightly.
"…What are you doing?" she called.
Soren returned without urgency.
"Solving the problem you created," he said.
Freya stared at him.
"…I don't need—"
"You do," he cut in, calm as ever.
A pause.
"You just don't intend to admit it."
Freya's jaw tightened.
"…You're insufferable."
"And you're injured," he returned.
That ended it.
Soren stepped closer again.
"…Stand," he said.
Freya hesitated this time.
"…Why?"
Soren's gaze held hers.
"Because I'm not asking twice."
That—
she believed.
Freya pushed herself up slowly.
The movement pulled at her side, her breath catching again.
Soren's attention sharpened.
"…Careful," he murmured.
Freya frowned at him.
"…You don't get to sound concerned now."
Soren's expression didn't shift much.
"I don't need permission to be accurate," he said.
Then—
He reached for the outer layer of her clothing.
Freya stilled immediately.
"…What are you doing?"
Soren didn't stop.
"What does it look like?" he replied.
Freya caught his wrist instinctively.
"…Don't."
That made him pause.
His gaze dropped briefly—to her hand on his.
Then back to her.
"…You fell down a cliff," he said.
A pause.
"Unless you've learned to heal through stubbornness, this is the more efficient option."
Freya didn't release him immediately.
"…I can do it myself."
Soren's expression shifted—just slightly.
"I'm sure you can," he said.
"But you won't."
And then—
"Because you're already in pain."
Freya hesitated.
That hesitation cost her.
Because Soren used it.
Gently—
but deliberately—
he pulled her hand away.
And resumed.
The fabric loosened under his fingers.
"…Because of you," he said calmly, almost idly,
"I'm having to learn how to remove a man's clothing."
Freya's eyes snapped to his.
"…You're enjoying this."
That earned the faintest hint of a smile.
"I find it… educational," he said.
Freya exhaled sharply, looking away.
"…You're impossible."
"And you're still standing here," he replied.
Not helping.
Not making it easier.
Not lingering where he shouldn't—
but not rushing either.
And that somehow made it worse.
Freya became too aware of everything.
Of his hands.
Of how close he was.
Of the fact that she wasn't stopping him anymore.
That unsettled her more than anything else.
"…This isn't necessary," she muttered again, weaker now.
Soren glanced at her.
"No," he said.
A pause.
"But it's happening anyway."
The last of the outer layer loosened.
Soren stepped back slightly then.
"Come," he said.
Freya hesitated.
"…Where?"
Soren's gaze flicked toward the adjoining space.
"The bath," he said.
Freya stared at him.
"…You're serious."
"Yes."
"Unless you'd prefer to limp for the next several days."
Freya exhaled slowly.
"…You're not giving me a choice."
Soren's expression didn't change.
"I did," he said.
"You used it already."
That—
she couldn't argue.
Freya moved first this time.
Slowly.
Toward the bath.
The air was warmer there.
Steam already rising.
She stopped near the edge.
"…And this is the part where you leave," she said.
Soren didn't move.
"No," he said.
Freya turned toward him sharply.
"…No?"
Soren met her gaze evenly.
"You don't get to disappear again," he said.
A pause.
"Not even for a moment."
Freya's chest tightened slightly.
"…That sounds like punishment."
Soren's expression shifted—just slightly.
"It is," he said.
"Consider it a consequence."
Freya stared at him.
"…And what exactly is the consequence?"
Soren stepped closer again.
His voice lowered.
"That I stay," he said.
A pause.
"And make sure you don't run."
Freya's breath slowed.
Because that—
wasn't just control.
It was something closer.
More dangerous.
And she still didn't understand why part of her reacted to it at all.
"…You're insufferable," she muttered again.
Soren's gaze didn't leave hers.
"And you're not leaving," he replied.
And this time—
there was no distance left to pretend otherwise.
Water shifted around her, warmer than expected.
Steam clung to the air and her skin, blurring the edges of the room.
But Soren was still clear.
He rolled up his sleeves methodically.
He started to wash her back. Each pass of the cloth was efficient, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake that did nothing to soothe the tension coiling in her gut. Her mind raced, cataloging every detail: the scent of the soap, the quiet rasp of cloth on skin, the controlled movements of his hands.
"Stop tensing," Soren commanded.
The words were quiet, but they cut through the steam.
"You're making it difficult."
Freya gritted her teeth, the muscles in her shoulders screaming in protest.
"And whose fault is that?"
A pause. The cloth stilled. Then it moved again, lower this time, tracing the line of her ribs.
Then he went even lower.
The cloth traced the curve of her hip, her thigh.
Freya's breath caught again.
He then he moved the cloth between her legs, parting her.
Soren's gaze held hers for a long moment.
Then, almost too quietly—
"…Still stubborn?" he asked.
Freya's throat felt dry.
She couldn't answer.
And worse—
she didn't know what she would have said if she could.
Because he wasn't just touching her.
She flinched from the soreness as she tried to shift her weight.
His gaze followed the motion.
"Sometimes pain is our best teacher." He stated.
"Sometimes it's just pain," she replied sharply, her breath catching.
Soren made a sound, a quiet hum of consideration. His touch becoming impossibly gentle as he prodded the swelling. The contrast was jarring.
"Pain without purpose is just noise," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
"This has a purpose."
She didn't have to ask what that purpose was. It was written in every line of his posture, in the unwavering focus in his eyes. The purpose was control. The purpose was a lesson. The purpose was to ensure she never, ever thought to run again.
He continued with his fingers, he started caressing her inner most thighs.
Freya stiffened again.
"…What are you doing?"
Soren didn't stop. He didn't even look up.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Soren's lips, a sight so foreign it was more alarming than any scowl.
He started to caress her more.
"Still trying to decide what to call this?" he asked, his voice a low murmur against her temple.
"Punishment? Care?"
His fingers parted her folds again, this time not to clean but to explore.
The touch was deliberate, a slow, patient mapping of her most sensitive flesh. Freya's breath hitched, a betraying little gasp she couldn't swallow.
She wanted to tell him to stop.
Instead, she stayed perfectly still, her body locked in a battle between the instinct to flee and the paralyzing weight of his presence. He found the small, sensitive bud and circled it once, twice, watching her face with an unnerving intensity, as if studying the subtle flickers of emotion crossing her features.
A low groan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, involuntary response.
"Interesting," he said, the word barely a whisper.
"Your body doesn't lie, even when your tongue does."
Soren's fingers moved with a new intent, stroking, circling, applying a pressure that sent jolts of electricity through her veins.
His finger slid inside her, a slow, deliberate invasion. Freya cried out, a raw, ragged sound that was half pain, half pleasure. Her hips bucked, a movement she couldn't control, couldn't stop. Soren held her still, his other hand pressing firmly against her hip.
"Ah," he breathed against her ear, his voice a low, triumphant rumble.
"There it is."
He began to move, his finger stroking her inner walls, thrusting, and finding a rhythm that made her head spin. Her nails dug into the stone edge of the tub, her knuckles white. The water sloshed around them, a chaotic counterpoint to the steady, maddening rhythm of his touch.
His thumb found her clit again, rubbing in tight, insistent circles.
The world narrowed to the sensations he was creating. The heat of the water, the coolness of the stone under her fingertips, the relentless pressure of his finger inside her, the maddening friction of his thumb.
"That's it,"
he coaxed, his voice a dark, seductive whisper.
"Let go."
He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her. The sensation was overwhelming, a fullness that bordered on pain. He curled his fingers, finding a spot inside her. A cry tore from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"That's the spot," he murmured,
"Right there."
He focused on that spot, stroking it, pressing it, driving her wild with a pleasure so intense it was almost agony.
Her body arched, her back bowing, her head thrown back. Her muscles clenched around his fingers, a desperate, involuntary spasm.
The dam broke. A wave of pleasure, more powerful than any she had ever known, crashed over her, sweeping her away in a torrent of sensation. She convulsed, her body shaking, her cries echoing in the steam-filled room.
She collapsed against him, limp, spent, her body trembling in the aftermath.
Soren held her, his arms wrapped around her. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just held her, letting the water calm around them.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but it held the weight of a verdict.
"You see?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple.
"This is what happens when you run."
He lifted her out of the tub, his movements surprisingly gentle. He wrapped her in a thick, soft towel, his hands lingering on her skin.
He carried her to the bed, laying her down with a care that was at odds with the ruthless way he had just claimed her body.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. His gaze was unreadable, a mix of satisfaction, possession, and something else, something she couldn't quite name.
"Rest," he said, his voice quiet, but firm. "We're not done."