The humidity from the hot bath filled the room to the point the mirror above the sink fogged over. Maeve took a deep breath and wiped at the surface with a towel so she could see her reflection.

A chill spreading through her despite the warmth in the air, she forced herself not to reach for a towel or her clothes to cover her body. Forced herself to look at the reflection she’d shunned for far too long.

Take a bath, Tashia had said. Maeve laughed at that at first, but the petite demon insisted, gave her the task as “homework.”

Your body was turned into a battlefield, she explained, and it’s hard to live inside the relic of a war that devastated you. It’s understandable if you disconnected yourself from your body, ignored it for all this time. But you mentioned that you want to reclaim your sexuality, and the first step to that is to learn to love yourself again. If you want to be comfortable while being naked with someone—and, boy, did she ever—then you need to feel comfortable being naked when you’re alone.

So she was to look at herself, really look, without judgment, pushing back against negative thoughts, and then enjoy a nice, hot bath. To notice all the little details of how her body reacted to the water, to simply feel. Easier said than done, it turned out.

Ever since she’d come back from that warehouse, she took care of her personal hygiene with the utmost speed and efficiency, lest she spend more time than necessary dealing with this body that had failed her so. She hadn’t been able to bear the sight of it—naked—after the initial shock when she was well enough to take care of herself again.

And now she trembled in front of the mirror, trembled at seeing the proof of how she’d been broken, used, degraded. Even though the healer witches who came to see her did their best to mend her injuries and remove her scars, they weren’t able to erase all of them. A pattern of white markings and raised flesh still criss-crossed her skin in far too many places, among them her breasts—a particularly obnoxious cruelty, marring the very area that should appeal to a lover.

Disfigured, that hated voice inside her whispered. Ugly.

Her hands clenched to fists against the urge to cover herself.

Once he sees your scars, he won’t desire you anymore. He won’t even want to touch you.

She hauled in air with burning lungs and shuddered. It took her a moment, but then she shook her head in quiet defiance and said, “Not ugly.” An unsteady breath. “Kintsugi.”

Her eyes flicked to the bowl she’d brought into the bathroom with her, set on the shelf above the tub as a reminder, as a focal point.

“Beauty in repair,” she whispered, and looked back at her reflection, imagined each scar filled with golden lacquer, each fracture point lovingly decorated, its mending celebrated, kissed with light. Imagined it so vividly, so intensely, finally the mental picture of herself superimposed itself on reality, and her mirrored self shone with a filigree pattern of golden lines.

In the end, she smiled.

When she slipped into the hot water, steam curling around her, she watched, and felt, and relished each slosh and wave lapping at her skin. How the water flowed over her, trickled from her arms, her breasts, closed around her knees.

And she looked, did not avert her eyes, and mapped the landscape of horrors on her body. Only now those horrors had lost some of their hold on how she saw herself—for the image of golden lines seemed to flicker where before she only saw the hateful reminders of how she’d been made a victim.

Not a victim. Tashia’s voice echoed in her thoughts.

“Survivor,” Maeve muttered.

That was another of her lessons, another impression Tashia had offered her. A shift in perspective, a seemingly simple change of vocabulary, yet it turned the tables in her head. That word gave her courage, strength, and a budding sense of pride.

She’d made it. She’d gotten out, alive. He meant to kill her—he’d failed. He thought he’d broken her beyond repair—yet here she was, taking steps…admittedly shaky so far…to reactivate what he hadn’t been able to destroy.

Slowly, gently, she stroked over her arms, her shoulders, her legs. Massaged her skin, her muscles, not shying away—for once, for the first time—from the areas that were difficult to think about, much less touch. And with each languid, careful, loving stroke over her body, a twisted part inside her unraveled, another crinkle smoothed out, until she felt it, truly felt it—how her self, the core of her, so inextricably entwined with her physical form, breathed free for the first time in months.

And like a mistreated dog that finally, finally found the affection it yearned for, her body seemed to whisper, Thank you. Thank you for wanting to see me again.

The tears were silent at first. Then her chest heaved with powerful sobs, but it was a good sort of crying. A cleansing one.

She hugged herself, golden scars and broken pieces and all, and remained that way until the water cooled around her and the steam on the mirror cleared.

* * *

When Maeve opened the door to Arawn’s knock, her natural scent of fire and wind was caressed by the heavy sweetness of bath oils, her hair curling wet down to her shoulders. An image of another time she’d stood before him with dripping hair—when she walked into his lair that day—flashed through his mind, and the difference between the two, the change in her, struck him hard.

The Maeve who faced him now glowed from within with a new kind of quiet confidence, her poise infused with soft assurance, as if she’d settled a bit more into her own skin. The effect on his senses was irresistibly alluring.

“I have always thought you beautiful,” he murmured, “but tonight you are breathtaking.”

Her cheeks blushed, but she didn’t lower her eyes, simply smiled and said, “Thank you.”

He followed her invitation to step inside, sat with her on the couch. She pulled up her legs, clad in soft, flowing pants, and draped them over his lap. Raising a brow at her, he laid his hand atop her shin, watched her reaction as he pushed the fabric up until he touched skin.

That quiet assurance of hers didn’t waver.

He stroked small circles over her calf. “I found him.”

She didn’t miss a beat, her eyes becoming sharp. “The other god.”

“Velez.” He nodded, his thumb still tracing idly over her skin, soothing the touch-hungry wildness in him. “We agreed to disagree.”

She frowned, so he told her of the encounter, ending with how he’d let him leave.

“I get that,” she said to the sliver of doubt in his voice, the unspoken question behind his words. “If he’s like family, it’s not as easy as black and white, even if he’s difficult.”

So discerning. He cocked his head, regarded her for a minute while he caressed her lower legs, dared to stroke up to her knees. “Do you hold it against your grandmother that she bound your powers inside you?”

“No.” A shake of her head. “I mean, I understand now why she did it. That kind of power inside me…it could have seriously hurt someone, maybe even me, if it broke out. It’s just…weird that she wouldn’t simply say so. Why make up a story about how I was born without powers?”

He stilled, his focus zeroing in on her. “Probably to keep you safe,” he said, playing along, his casualness belying the suspicion prickling in his nape. Careful, he had to be careful here.

She shrugged, lowered her eyes. “Yeah, seeing as I was kidnapped to be harvested when the knowledge about my powers got out.” She sighed, rubbed her shoulder. “I miss her, though. After Mom died, and Dad was…lost, she was my rock.”

Clearing her throat, she added, “Speaking of my father…I would like to see him sometime.”

“Of course.” Another lazy stroke up to her knees.

“I would have to go visit him, though.” A probing look from underneath her lashes. “He can’t come here.”

“I know.” Frank MacKenna was bound to a nursing home in Portland, his mind too addled for him to live without constant supervision. “I will arrange for you to see him.” He massaged her feet, watched with satisfaction how her features slackened in pleasure.

“The healer witches,” he said after a moment, carefully laying the path, “have not been able to reverse your father’s mental impairment?”

“No.” She pressed her lips together. “They tried, but the damage is just too deep. You know, sometimes he has these lucid moments when I visit him, but only ever with me. He looks at me, and suddenly his eyes are clear like they used to be, and he recognizes me…even talks to me. Just a few words, but outside of those moments, he doesn’t speak at all. He doesn’t recognize Merle, ever. It hurts her so much to see him react to me but not her that she only goes to visit him alone now.”

“How close was he to the blast?”

“I’m not sure.” She frowned. “Not as close as my mom or Moira, obviously, but somewhere in the outer radius of Moira’s spell, and still it hit him hard enough to cause some sort of damage to his mind.”

His heart thumped faster with the dizzying confirmation he’d been waiting for. He dared probe her more directly now, at the risk of sounding moronic if he was wrong in his suspicion after all. “Where were you?”

“In the house, with my grandma. I didn’t even see it happen. I just remember my grandma screaming, running outside, and…” She shook her head, dark shadows swirling in her eyes. “It was like a bomb had gone off.”

“Do you resent Moira,” he gently asked, “for what she did?”

A deep breath. “No. It wasn’t her fault, not really. She just…lost control.”

He stroked up her legs again, soothing her as much as himself, for underneath his outward calm roiled a storm of rage.

She didn’t know. Maeve didn’t know it wasn’t Moira’s spell that was responsible for the blast.

And that acidic taste of the slivers of thought she unknowingly projected at him, her shields lowered in familiarity with his presence, it was enough to tip him off. Her gap in knowledge about this crucial part of her past wasn’t natural—she’d known it once.

Someone had messed with her memories—and recently so—had made her forget it was her magic breaking through at the age of eight that killed her mother, her sister, and mentally maimed her father.