The bathroom is warm — too warm, really — with steam curling around the gold fixtures and burgundy marble. Jazz hums low from a record player somewhere in the corner. Candles flicker like little tongues of fire, reflecting off the ornate mirror.

You’d poured yourself a bath. Lavender oil. A few rose petals. You’d planned a moment alone. But…

Click… click… click…

That unmistakable sound: James’s heels on the marble floor.

He appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled, a glass of red wine in one hand and a heavy crystal decanter in the other — but that isn’t wine.

“I do hope you weren’t planning on wasting a bath alone, my dear. That would be… dreadfully mundane.”

You glance at the tub. Then at the decanter. You open your mouth, unsure.

“What is it?” “A gift. A remedy. A tribute. And… perhaps… just a touch of hemoglobin.”

He pours it slowly into the water. It spreads like ink. Your soft floral bath becomes something rich, decadent, macabre.

He climbs in behind you fully dressed, silk shirt and all, his arms slowly sliding around your waist as he presses his face to your neck. His breath is warm, words brushing your skin like silk and steel.

“Ahhh. There. Much better. Now tell me — what shall I scrub away first? Your sins… or your self-control?”