Ivan.
"Ivan."
"Ivan."
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the warm steam like a blade.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. His eyes were fixed on her — as if the rest of his body had forgotten it could move, as if every muscle had surrendered to the sight before him.
The water slid down her skin in slow, heavy drops, clinging to her as if the world outside the tub wasn’t worthy of touching her. The steam curled around her body, making her edges blur, as though she wasn’t fully real — just a dream, too fragile to reach for. Her wet blonde hair clung to her face, her neck, her shoulders, then tumbled down in damp waves to her waist.
She slt of jasmine and roses — the scent sharp and sweet all at once. It hit him like a door swinging open to a room he’d locked years ago. The sll carried sumr evenings, skin against skin, laughter muffled by lips that couldn’t stop touching. It carried the mory of her in his arms, of her hair spilling over his chest, of whispered promises made when the night felt endless.
He looked at her the way a starving man looks at a feast he knows will poison him. He could almost taste her in the air — but if he reached for her, if he let his fingers trace that skin... he knew it wouldn’t save him. It would ruin him.
Because her eyes — those blue, unblinking eyes — were cold.
She wasn’t here to share warmth. She was here to cut into him without leaving a scar anyone else could see.
His chest felt tight. His breath ca shallow, uneven. A part of him — the part that rembered what it was like to have her — wanted to step closer, to pull her out of the water and wrap her in his arms. But another part knew better. That part kept his feet planted, as if the tiles beneath him might crack if he dared to move.
"Pass the towel," Lydia said, her tone smooth, almost lazy, as if she were asking for nothing more than a glass of water.
He froze.
She tilted her head slightly. "Please," she added. Her voice softened, but there was a faint, glinting edge to it — the kind that could split bone if pressed deep enough.
Ivan blinked, as if surfacing from deep underwater. He turned to grab the towel from the chair beside him. His fingers felt clumsy, too aware of every inch of fabric.
Before he could hand it to her, she spoke again, her voice floating in the steam like smoke.
"Should I leave?" she asked, quieter this ti. "Just say the word, Ivan, and I’ll go."
He turned, the towel hanging from his hand, and t her eyes. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
She reached forward, taking it from him. Her fingers brushed his — just barely — and yet the touch felt like it burned. She pressed the towel to her skin, moving slowly, almost languidly, drying herself as though she knew every second was pulling him deeper under.
"You keep getting flustered by ," she said with the faintest pout, her voice sowhere between amusent and mockery. "We were married for three years, Ivan. Why are you acting like you’ve never seen before?"
The words slid into him like a knife, but she didn’t twist it. She didn’t need to.
"We’ve seen each other naked before," she continued, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "No need to act shy."
She stood, wrapped the towel loosely around herself, and walked past him. As she reached the doorway, her voice dropped just enough for him to hear.
"Well... we’ve been separated for three years. Which ans, if we’re being honest, we were only really married for about three months. You’re practically a newlywed still." She paused. "Maybe you’re just... adjusting."
Light words. Heavy weight.
She left the room.
Ivan stood there, staring at the tub. The rose petals floated in the cooling water, their scent thick in the air. Jasmine and roses. Her scent. Her presence clung to the walls, to the steam, to him. He told himself maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe his mind had wandered into dangerous territory. But the damp air and the warmth still on his skin told him she had been here — flesh and bone and dangerously close.
He stood for a long ti, willing his heartbeat to slow. But then — a sound. Faint. The clattering of sothing in the next room.
He followed it, every step pulled tight with tension.
She was there.
Lydia stood at his drawers, her back to him, her hands moving with quiet precision as she searched through them.
"I was looking for a brush," she said without turning. "For my hair."
She was wearing a robe.
His robe.
It draped loosely over her fra, hanging just off her shoulders. The belt was tied in a careless knot, as though it barely mattered if it ca undone.
She glanced over her shoulder, catching his stare. "Oh... this? It’s yours, isn’t it?" Her smile was faint, almost harmless. "Katherine must have forgotten to bring my things. So... I’ll just wear this for now."
She tilted her head, her voice soft and falsely sweet. "I can wear it, right?"
He didn’t answer. Just sat down at the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving her.
"Thank you," she said, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face.
She turned back to the mirror, found the brush she wanted, and began pulling it through her hair in long, slow strokes. Each pass caught the light, making her hair shimr like pale gold.
Her eyes stayed fixed on her reflection, but her thoughts were knives. I’ll make you suffer. I’ll make you burn. I’ll make you beg. I’ll make you realise what you threw away.
Ivan didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
It wasn’t just desire. It was hunger. It was sickness. It was the ache of sothing you can’t have but can’t stop wanting. He knew she’d co to tornt him, to play a ga. But God help him — he was already playing.
Her robe slipped, showing the smooth line of her shoulder. She didn’t fix it.
She didn’t need to.
The air between them was thick, heavy with everything unsaid.
Only the soft, steady sound of the brush filled the room — like the beat of a heart that didn’t know if it wanted to race or stop altogether.
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