Eugene waited at the doorstep, hands behind his back, as Lord Typhon approached. Without a word, Typhon handed him his coat, and Eugene took it swiftly, giving a respectful nod.
"How did collection go, Milord?" he asked, stepping aside as Typhon entered.
Typhon rolled his shoulders, clearly weary.
"The usual. Glaring eyes. Empty bellies. Yet still, they pay, most of them."
Eugene followed quietly behind. "And the ones who didn't?"
"They'll learn," Typhon said curtly.
"The crown does not beg."
Eugene gave a slight nod.
"Shall I arrange for the logs to be updated?"
"Yes. And send word to the treasurer." He paused at the foot of the stairs. "Where is Sapphire?"
"I believe she's in her quarters, Milord. Looked a bit pale when she returned."
Typhon narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing. Then he ascended the stairs, His steps were silent down the corridor, but his senses roared. The coppery scent of blood was thick in the air, fresh, raw. His eyes darkened, flickering from their usual stormy gray to a haunting crimson as instinct surged beneath his skin.
He didn't bother knocking.
The door creaked open under his hand, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Candles sputtered on the table, and there she was, Sapphire, standing with her back turned, dressed only in her brief shift, her skin blotched with bruises and scratches, her arms trembling slightly as she dabbed a cloth against her neck.
She froze.
"Milord—" her voice caught.
"What happened," he growled, not asked, demanded. His voice filled the room like smoke. He stepped inside, shutting the door with a final thud behind him.
Sapphire turned,
"I handled it—"
"Clearly," he cut in, eyes sweeping over her wounds with a fury barely restrained. His jaw clenched. "You reek of death. Who touched you?"
She didn't answer immediately. His gaze was too much,too sharp.
Typhon stepped closer, the red in his eyes flaring.
"Tell me. Now."
Sapphire flinched at the edge in his voice, her body instinctively recoiling. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.
"He—he grabbed me," she whispered, voice trembling. "The woman's husband. The one from the fabric shop. I—I went to collect the dues, but found her dead. He said she'd died from the disease but… there was blood, and his tunic—there was a stain. I asked too many questions. He… he snapped."
Typhon's fists clenched at his sides.
"He strangled me, Milord. Said I'd die like she did. I barely made it out alive…"
He nodded slowly, tension still thick in his jaw. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and took the damp cloth from her trembling fingers.
"Let me," he said, voice low but steady.
Sapphire blinked, stunned. "I—I got it," she murmured, reaching for the cloth, but he held her wrist gently.
"Be still."
Her heart thudded in her chest as he guided her back to sit, his cold fingers brushing her jaw with surprising tenderness. She closed her eyes, breath shaky as he carefully dabbed the cloth against the dark bruises on her neck, wiping away the blood with quiet precision.
He didn't speak, but his hands spoke volumes, steady, cold, and filled with unspoken fury. Sapphire's breath hitched as the cloth brushed along her bruised skin, each movement deliberate, careful. There was no rush in his hands, only a quiet reverence that made her heart beat louder than it should have.
She opened her eyes, just a little, and found him closer than expected. Lord Typhon's brows were drawn in focus, his gaze not on her face but on the fading fingerprints at her neck. The cloth moved lower, across her collarbone, where the skin was reddened.
"You shouldn't have gone alone," he muttered, more to himself.
"I'm fine now," she lied softly.
He didn't answer. Instead, he set the cloth aside and reached for the small jar of balm on the table. Dipping two fingers into it, he applied a thin layer to the bruises. His fingertips trailed lightly down her neck, then across her shoulders and to her upper arms, where faint marks still lingered.
Her skin prickled beneath his touch, heat rising where there should have been only pain.
"You're trembling," he noted.
"I'm not."
"You are."
Typhon's hand lingered a moment too long against her skin, then slowly withdrew. He didn't meet her eyes right away, his voice quieter now—less steel, more shadow.
"You should rest."
Sapphire swallowed, unsure if it was from the heat rising to her cheeks or the storm still settling in her chest. "You came all the way to say that?"
He gave a slight shake of his head, almost amused. "If I'd come only for that, would you have listened?"
She lowered her gaze, fingers curling slightly on her lap. "Maybe."
He stood, reaching for the blanket draped over the nearby chair and pulling it gently over her shoulders. His knuckles grazed her cheek as he tucked a strand of hair away.
"I'll handle the rest," he said.
Her throat tightened. She hadn't realized how badly she needed to hear that. "Even the collection?" she managed, half-joking, half-weary.
His lips twitched faintly, almost a smile, but not quite. "Especially the collection."
He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, his voice lower than before. "If you need anything… call for Eugene. Don't go off playing hero."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of forest and steel—and the warmth of his touch still burning on her skin.