Jason stepped out of the bathhouse, his skin still damp, his dark hair clinging to his forehead and the back of his neck. The hot water had done its job—washing away the grime, the ichor, the lingering smell of spider and cave dust that had embedded itself in his pores over the past few days. His muscles ached less. His cuts had stopped stinging. For the first time since entering the Stonefang tunnels, he felt almost human again.
But the water hadn't washed away the memory of what had just happened.
Mira.
The shower. The steam. The way she had emerged from the shadows without a sound—because she was always silent, always watching. The way her amber eyes had locked onto his. The way she had pressed him against the cold tile, her body warm against his, her claws grazing his chest, her tail curling around his thigh.
He hadn't said no.
