"Scrub every inch of your skin until the scent and traces of my brother are nowhere to be seen or smelled, or I shall do it myself."
The threat hung in the humid air, heavier than the steam. Aurelian didn't move; he stayed there, watching with an expectant, icy patience that made Julian's skin crawl.
The implication was clear—if Julian didn't erase Alaric's touch from his own body, the Emperor would use his own hands to erase the memory.
And that did not sound like a good thing.
Julian was sensible enough not to be stubborn in times like this. He had to do this. Washing himself until he was red all over did not mean he did not like the Duke any less, and it did not mean that nothing had happened between them.
There was still the memory in his heart, and the warmth he had felt from intertwining bodies with the Duke, not even the steam from this bath could replace it.
