“Hey. Can you light it?”
I point at the battered old cauldron, squatting crooked over the fire pit like it’s ashad of itself. There’s water in it already. My loot for the day—three cracked handfuls of herbs, a few crumpled orange blossoms, and sothing I think is bay but might be sobody’s funeral wreath—lies beside it.
The Dragon squints one lazy golden eye open. “What is it?”
“The pot,” I say. “The one shaped like your balls when it’s cold.”
He grumbles. But he huffs. And with one half-hearted whoomph, fire blossoms underneath. It slls like pine tar and contempt.
I smile sweetly. “Thanks, sugarplu.”
He pretends not to hear.
When the water starts bubbling like a witch’s stew, I strip. No ceremony. Just off with the tunic, toss the underwear onto a rock, and up cos the cloth—an old embroidered sheet I stole from a caravan two towns ago. Slls faintly of lavender and cals.
I drape it over my head and the rim of the pot. Bend forward. Let the steam rise. Let it open .
It’s hot. Sharp. The first blast stings the inside of my nose like I just snorted sumr. The second one crawls into my skin. Rosemary, orange, sweat, regret.
Behind , I hear the Dragon shifting. Wings rustling like cranky laundry. He finally asks:
“…What exactly are you doing, naked, under a cloth, sweating into a cauldron?”
I inhale deeply. Let it coil into my chest. Then I breathe out slow, like I’m exorcising a mory.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Another beat. Then his voice, bone-dry:
“I’m a thousand years old. I’ve seen entire civilizations built on public bathhouses and scented goat oil. Try .”
I peek out from under the cloth. My hair’s damp and clinging to my cheeks. My boobs are dripping. I look like a sex ghost.
“It’s for ,” I say. “Not for clients. Not for bait. Not even for you.”
That gets a snort.
I sit back a little, steam curling around my thighs like ghost fingers. “It’s how I tell my body—hey, you’re safe. For one night. No straps. No altar. No lineup. Just this scent. This heat. Like I’m sothing worth steeping.”
He stares at . Long enough that I wonder if I’ve said too much.
Then: “You do realize dragons have an extrely sensitive sense of sll.”
I grin.
“I know,” I say. “You’re welco.”
I toss in another handful of orange blossom. The steam rises sweeter now. Sharper. I close my eyes and breathe deep.
For once, I don’t feel like sothing borrowed.
I feel like sothing infused.
He clears his throat—the deep, gravelly kind that ans he’s about to say sothing smug and annoying.
“Do you want to sll like bay leaves and orange blossoms from a mile away?” he drawls. “Because congratulations, my dear—every horny warlock within three valleys is about to follow their nose straight into your unntionables.”
I don’t even lift the cloth. Just flick a few droplets of condensation off my nipple with one finger and smirk under the veil.
“Better than slling like ash and lizard, darling.”
That gets a sharp exhale. Could’ve been a scoff. Could’ve been him suppressing a chuckle.
I push the cloth back just enough to peek out and bat my lashes. “Besides. You could try it soti.”
He recoils theatrically. “Try what? Turning myself into a damp dumpling over an herb pot?”
“No,” I say, stretching one leg out of the steam cloud with deliberate grace. “Letting so heat in. Opening up those old crusty scales. Loosen the soot. Air out the centuries.”
He makes a scandalized noise.
I waggle my toes at him. “You could sll like… I don’t know. Myrrh and crushed velvet. Or rose hips and bad decisions.”
“I already sll like bad decisions,” he mutters.
I wink. “Then lean in, sugarbelch. Let’s make it intentional.”
There’s a long pause. Then he turns his massive head away with a snort that rattles the treetops.
“Unbelievable,” he grumbles. “I’m traveling with a sexed-up soup ingredient.”
I grin under the veil. Let the steam rise. Let it claim .
“Infused,” I whisper.
“I am infused.”
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