Clara sank back onto the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the zipper of the sleek black suitcase Emily had left behind. It looked impossibly elegant sitting there, the kind of luggage that belonged in a boutique window rather than a bedroom that felt more like a recovery ward.
She tugged the zipper open, and her breath dropped as the case unfolded neatly before her.
Inside were stacks and stacks of her clothes, perfectly folded and smelling faintly of her favorite perfume. Familiar shoes lined one side, her makeup bag tucked neatly into a corner, and beneath a few dresses, the soft silk of her favorite robe peeked through.
A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it, light and almost disbelieving.
"Emily, you absolute angel," she murmured to herself, smoothing a hand over the top of a cashmere sweater. After days spent in the same dress—wrinkled, stretched, and faintly scented of antiseptic, this felt like salvation. Her fingers lingered on the robe, a pale lavender she'd always loved, and she imagined for a moment wrapping herself in it after a real shower.
The thought was irresistible.
She bit her lip and glanced toward the bathroom. Natalia had been helping her bathe with sponge baths every day, which had been kind, even comforting in its own way. But Clara longed to stand beneath the rush of warm water, let the heat soak into her aching body, and wash away the stiffness that clung to her like a second skin.
The decision settled in her chest, certain and stubborn.
She rose to her feet with deliberate care, pushing herself up with one hand braced on the mattress. A dull ache pulled at her ribs, but it was far more bearable than it had been. The healing felt unnatural, though she wasn't about to complain.
She moved slowly, but she was moving—and that felt like its own kind of victory.
Clara made her way to the door, leaning against the frame for balance. "Cyra?" she called, pitching her voice casually, like she was asking for nothing more than a favor.
He appeared almost instantly, filling the doorway with his presence. He leaned against the frame opposite her, one hand braced casually, but his dark eyes scanned her quickly, assessing. His shirt sleeves were still rolled to the elbow.
"Is something the matter?" he asked, his tone even but edged with that quiet intensity he couldn't quite turn off.
Clara shook her head quickly, smiling to reassure him. "No, nothing's wrong. I was just wondering if Natalia was around. I need…" She hesitated, embarrassed by how small the request felt. "Help. With a shower."
Cyra's brows lifted slightly, then softened. "She left this morning. I'm not sure where."
"Oh." Clara tried not to sound too disappointed, but her shoulders sank a little. She wasn't helpless, but getting through this on her own without making her injury worse suddenly felt daunting.
Cyra tilted his head, his expression remorseful. "Is there something I can do?"
The suggestion sent a rush of heat to her cheeks, and she straightened immediately, waving her hands. "No. Absolutely not."
He raised a brow, amusement flickering across his features. "Not even to help you into a robe?"
Clara froze, caught between indignation and practicality. She hated needing help. But the sharp memory of pain from last night—when she'd tried to lift her shirt and nearly doubled over—was still fresh.
Slowly, reluctantly, she sighed. "Fine. But don't you dare try anything. And don't look. If you do, I swear I'll strike you with lightning before you can blink."
For a heartbeat, Cyra simply stared at her, and then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Really laughed. It was a deep, unguarded sound, filling the room with warmth.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, laughing so hard his eyes watered.
"It's not funny!" Clara snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, though her face burned hotter at his reaction.
"It is," he said between chuckles, brushing a hand over his eyes. "Clara, you have my word. I won't look. I'll be the perfect gentleman."
She narrowed her eyes at him but huffed in reluctant surrender. "Just help me with the shirt. That's all I need."
He nodded, the laughter fading to something calmer but still warm. "Of course."
Turning her back to him made her heart race faster than she wanted to admit. She lifted her arms carefully, wincing as her ribs protested. Cyra's steps were soft behind her, his presence quiet but unmistakable.
"Ready?" he murmured.
She gave a small nod.
His hands were steady and warm as he gently lifted the hem of her shirt, moving with exaggerated care. He didn't rush, and he didn't look where he shouldn't. His gaze stayed to the far left , his expression unreadable but calm.
When the shirt was finally over her head, Clara shivered—not from cold but from the vulnerability of the moment.
Cyra reached for the robe, draped neatly over the bed, and held it open for her.
"Arms through," he said softly.
She obeyed, slipping one arm through the sleeve, but the robe caught on her shoulder. Without hesitation, he reached up, brushing her hair gently over to one side to free the fabric. His fingers grazed her bare skin, slow and careful. The contact sent a rush of sensation through her, a faint crackle of electricity beneath her skin—a reminder of the power inside her, always attuned to him.
Clara's breath stopped, her eyelids fluttering closed as he lingered just a moment too long.
His breathing had changed, quieter but heavier, controlled. She could feel him standing close behind her, his warmth seeping through the space between them. Her heart thudded against her ribs, not entirely from pain.
"Almost done," he said softly, voice low.
He guided her arms gently into the robe, pulling it around her with a care that felt more intimate than it should have. Clara clutched the lapels in her hands, holding them close to her chest as she turned—maybe to thank him, maybe to close the gap between them, maybe…
But before she could, he was gone.
The air where he'd been standing was empty. No footsteps, no sound—just a sudden, aching absence.
Clara blinked, startled, staring at the space he'd filled.
"Cyra?" she whispered.
No response.
He hadn't left because she needed space. He'd vanished because he needed it.
The thought left her flustered, her cheeks warm in a way she couldn't quite shake.
She cinched the robe tighter around herself, forcing a steadying breath. Slowly, she made her way to the bathroom, each step careful but determined.
When she turned the shower on, steam filled the room almost immediately. She stepped beneath the stream of warm water, letting it pour over her and rinse away the stiffness, the faint smell of antiseptic, and some of the lingering tension clinging to her.
And still, even as the water washed over her, she couldn't stop thinking about the warmth of his hands on her shoulders. About the way his breath had hitched.
About how quickly he'd disappeared.
Clara closed her eyes and leaned her head back under the spray, feeling the heat seep into her bones.
She didn't know what would've happened if he hadn't vanished.
And she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed by that.