Investing in My Crippled Wife: My Duchess Makes me Overpowered

He sat on the stool by the tub, his hands hanging between his knees, his head drooping.

She turned on the tap and hot water came out.

Thanks to dwarven technology. Runes and magic sigils could be used for things like this in the household. A fire rune on the pipes and strategically placed at the mouth of the tap heat the water before it came out. Ergo, hot water.

She wheeled around him, gently pouring water on his body, being as gentle as she could be.

She needed to wash him off enough to peel the clothes off him. The dried blood had clung to his skin and some parts, his clothes did the same. Well, most parts.

The water had begun fogging the window pane.

Then she was in front of him.

”Kneel.”

He knelt.

She reached for his tunic, her fingers finding the hem. She pulled it up. He raised his arms. She pulled it over his head.

She stared at his chest, noting some bruises and scars she had not seen before.

She reached for his belt, unfastened it, let his trousers fall. He stepped out of them.

She guided him to the tub. He climbed in. The water was warm. It stung against his cuts. He didn’t care. He sank down and closed his eyes.

She was quiet for a moment. Then he heard her chair move closer.

”Open your eyes.”

He did.

She was beside the tub, her hands on the rim, her eyes on him.

”You scared me tonight.”

”I know.”

”Don’t do it again.”

”I can’t promise that.”

She stared at him. Then she reached for the cloth, dipped it in the water, wrung it out.

She began to wash him.

Her hands were gentle.

She started with his face, the cloth moving across his brow, his cheeks, his jaw. The blood came away. The grime. The exhaustion.

”This blood,” she said quietly. ”Whose is it?”

He didn’t answer.

”Emeric.”

”People who wanted to kill me.”

She stopped, the cloth hovering over his chest. ”Did you kill them?”

”Yes.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she continued washing him.

”I’m glad.”

He looked at her. ”What?”

”I said I’m glad.” Her voice was steady. ”They tried to kill you. You survived. That’s all that matters.”

He stared at her. She met his gaze. His vision was getting lucid now. The fog was slowly wearing off.

”Don’t look at me like that.”

”Like what?”

”Like I’m something you —.”

He didn’t answer.

She continued washing him—his arms, his chest, his stomach, the cloth moving in slow circles, her touch light and careful.

He watched her.

”You’re beautiful,” he said again.

She paused, looked at him. ”You said that already.”

”I meant it then. I mean it now.”

Her lips pressed together. She looked away. ”Don’t.”

”Don’t what?”

”Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

He reached up, caught her hand, held it. ”I mean it.”

She looked at him, her eyes wet again. ”Emeric—”

”I thought about you.” His voice was hoarse. ”The whole time. When I was fighting. When I thought I might die. You were the only thing I could see. The only thing I wanted.”

Her eyes were focused on him now..

”I thought—if I don’t make it back, she’ll be alone. She’ll have no one. And I couldn’t—” He stopped, and paused. ”I couldn’t let that happen.”

She stared at him. Then she leaned forward, pressed her forehead to his.

”You came back.”

”I came back.”

”Promise me you’ll always come back.”

”I promise.”

She kissed him.

It started soft.

Her lips against his, gentle, tender. His hand found her face, cupped it, held her.

She pulled back. ”You’re still wet.”

”I don’t care.”

”You’ll get water everywhere.”

”I don’t care.”

She looked at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. ”You should finish washing.”

”I’m clean enough.”

She reached for the cloth again, dipped it, wrung it. ”There’s still blood.”

”Not mine.”

She pressed the cloth to his chest, held it there. ”I don’t want to think about whose it is.”

”Then don’t.”

She looked at him. He looked at her. Then she dropped the cloth.

Her hands found his face, pulled him closer, kissed him harder. He rose from the water, his hands finding her waist, her shoulders, her back, pulling her as close as the chair would allow.

She gasped against his mouth.

”Emeric—”

”Yes?.”

She didn’t respond. She was engulfed in him.

He lifted her, her legs dangling, her arms wrapping around his neck. He carried her out of the bathroom, water dripping from his body, leaving a trail across the floor. He didn’t care.

He carried her to the bedroom and laid her down.

The room was dark, the candle burned low.

He stood over her, his body bare and wet, still marked with the evidence of what he had done. She looked up at him, her chest rising and falling, her eyes wide and waiting.

”You’re sure?” he asked.

She reached up, touched his face. ”I’m sure.”

He lowered himself onto the bed, his body covering hers, his lips finding her neck, her jaw, her mouth. She arched beneath him, her hands finding his back, his shoulders, his hair.

He traced the lines of her body—the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her thigh. She shivered.

”You’re cold,” she whispered.

”I’m warming up.”

He kissed down her throat, her collarbone, the space between her breasts. She gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

”Emeric—”

”Tell me what you want.”

”You.”

”You have me.”

She pulled him up, kissed him hard. He responded in kind, his hands finding the hem of her dress, pushing it up, over her hips, over her head. She helped him, her movements urgent and uncoordinated. The fabric landed somewhere on the floor.

She was bare beneath him. Her skin flushed in the dim light.

He looked at her. All of her.

”You’re beautiful,” he said.

She pulled him down before he could say more.

What followed was not gentle. It was not slow.

Her hands explored his body. Her touch was warm and a promise.