Once he made it back to his room, Nalyx collapsed on the bed. Fuck, he was an idiot. No wonder Gantalla hadn’t been interested in sleeping with him. She was single, and clever, and beautiful, and what woman with all that going for her wouldn’t want a warrior for a husband? Not that he was looking for a wife, but that hadn’t stopped Liatra or June or Radian from seeking out his attention. But Liatra, at least, had come to her senses, telling him to damn well pull himself together before she would waste any more time with him. And on reflection, he realised she was right. Women wanted strong husbands, protectors, providers, and for as long as he kept mooching about feeling sorry for himself, she was right to keep her distance.
But Gantalla, for all her attention, still clearly didn’t want him. She’d just been too polite to come right out and say so. Ignoring his advances during the bath, reluctant to sleep in his bed, refusing to take her clothes off around him. He’d had the audacity to think she was shy, when she was really just a kind and compassionate woman who had rightly realised that he was beneath her. No wonder she’d been so excited about working at the hospital. It gave her a whole new outlet for her compassionate side, far more useful than coddling a sulky warrior.
Gods, he could be stupid sometimes.
But for all his internal scolding, his body was still remembering the way she’d looked with that fork in her mouth, the way her lips had stroked the thin metal, the way her eyes had closed in pleasure.
Awkwardly, he undid his trousers, wincing as he scraped the skin beneath his bandages in the process. He slid the pants off, leaving them lying on the floor, and flopped back down on the bed. His cock was still throbbing, ignoring his ongoing instructions to shut the fuck up, and after three weeks on the battlefield and four nights without a woman afterwards, he’d finally had enough.
Shuffling around, doing his best not to jar his shoulder, he grabbed the spare pillow on the bed and shoved it between his thighs. His hands were still too sore to use them to gain any relief, but that didn’t mean other options weren’t available. He rolled onto his front, thrusting his hips into the pillow, and he let out a moan as the smooth cotton stroked his aching flesh. Gods, yes, he needed this. He needed some sort of relief, no matter how simple, and in the absence of a willing woman, a pillow would have to do. He thrust again, his hips rolling forward, then he set up a quick rhythm.
He called to mind the way Gantalla had looked in her wet shirt, her nipples standing out beneath the thin fabric. He imagined what she would have looked like underneath, if he’d peeled that wet fabric up and over her shoulders. He thought about how it would feel to take her from behind, both of them thigh deep in the warm water of the bath, how she’d moan and thrust her shapely buttocks back at him…
A surge raced through his groin, and he buried his face in the blankets and moaned as he climaxed into the pillow. The orgasm went on for long moments, nearly four weeks of frustration pouring out of him in a hot, sticky mess. Then he lay still, catching his breath, his body sated, though his mind was still full of bitterness and disappointment.
Finally, he rolled over, cursing once again as he felt the wetness on his belly. Fuck. He did his best to wipe up the mess on the pillowcase, then tossed the thing to the floor. But come morning, he realised, he would have to figure out how the hell he was going to do some laundry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Aloe vera is the best thing for treating burns,” Henrietta said to Gantalla the next morning, in one of the hospital’s consulting rooms. She was smoothing the cool gel onto the hands of a fifteen year old boy who had instinctively reached for a cooking pot as it had fallen off the fire grate and scalded himself in the process. The boy was putting on a brave face, but from the angry blisters on his hands, it was clear he was in pain. “Burns are one of the most common injuries we treat. Hardly a surprise, given that everyone uses fire for cooking, but there’s a thousand different ways it can happen. A log fallen out of the fire, a dog knocking over a pot. A lady came in last week who’d been cleaning the ash out of the fireplace and hadn’t realised it was still hot.”
Henrietta set aside the pot of gel and wiped her hands, then began bandaging the wounds, even as she kept up the running commentary. “Aloe vera grows in the forest. It likes warmth, but shade, so you most often find it on the southern slopes where the forest gives way to the sandy plains.”
Gantalla jotted that down in the notebook she’d been given, making an effort to use the human script, rather than the more familiar letters of her homeworld.
“Marigold is another good one for milder burns. Somehow it seems to help the skin heal.” Henrietta turned her attention back to the boy, his father waiting at the side of the room with a concerned frown. “It’s very important that you keep the wounds dry for the next few days,” she told him, glancing at his father as well, to make sure he got the message. “Infection is the other main concern, and by keeping them clean and dry, you’ll have the best chance of this healing without scarring.”
It was the fifth patient they’d treated today, and the third who’d come in with some kind of burn. The other two had been a carpenter who’d crushed his finger from an ill-aimed blow from his hammer, and a little girl who’d started vomiting inexplicably. Her mother had assured Henrietta that they’d all eaten the same thing for dinner, and no one else in the house was affected, so Henrietta had treated the girl with ginger tea and told her mother to bring her back again tomorrow if it hadn’t settled down.
“Right. All set?” Henrietta said to the boy, standing up. “I’ll get you a packet of willow bark, and you can drink a cup of the tea if it’s hurting too badly. Add a little honey if it’s too bitter.”
She let herself out of the room, and Gantalla automatically set about tidying up the room, putting the lid back on the jar of gel and putting the rest of the bandages and scissors away. “Don’t worry,” she said to the boy, seeing his anxious frown. “You’re young. Young folk heal plenty quickly. You’ll be back to your old self in no time, and back to work, like an honest young man. Are you learning a trade yet?”
The boy nodded. “Da’s teaching me to be a blacksmith, like him. But I want to be a warrior.”
Gantalla glanced at his father, who simply sighed, a look of resignation on his face. He’d probably had this conversation with his son multiple times in the past, and would likely do so again in the future.
“Well, I think blacksmithing is a fine and noble profession,” Gantalla said. Perhaps it wasn’t her place to say anything, but if she could steer at least one young man away from the carnage at the gate, then all the better for it. “Plenty of strength needed to be a blacksmith. Let me see your arms.”
The boy flexed his muscles, his face flushing a faint pink, and Gantalla grinned. “See? You’ve already got the makings of some impressive muscles. Of course, it’s your choice in the end, but maybe your Da knows what he’s talking about?”
Henrietta returned then, handing the packet of herbs to the boy’s father, and Gantalla showed them both back to the reception room.
“Who’s next?” she asked Nanta, who was once again monitoring the reception desk.
“Next up, you’ve got…” She checked the appointment book. “Nalyx. For a check on the burns on his hands.”
Gantalla froze at the name, then forced herself to look up across the room. Sure enough, Nalyx was sitting in one of the wooden chairs, though he wasn’t looking her way. Gantalla repressed a sigh, knowing she couldn’t avoid him forever.
After his abrupt departure last night, she’d come back to the hospital, ready to ask the night nurse if she might be able to make use of one of the spare beds for the night. But to her great relief, she’d discovered something far more valuable.
“There’s a bunk room for the nurses out the back,” the woman had told her. “Some folk just use it when they’re on night shift, to catch a couple of hours sleep, but there are two or three women who live there permanently. Sometimes it’s easier that way, if they’re not married and don’t want to spend too much coin on renting a flat. You’re welcome to stay there, if you like. Board is two coins per night, and two more for food. There’s a cook who prepares breakfast and dinner in the kitchen out the back.”
She’d thanked the woman, hastily making her way through the back of the hospital to the bunk room. Her spare pair of shoes and some of her clothes were still in Nalyx’s room, but she figured she could sneak back in to fetch them during the day, while he was otherwise occupied.
Now, she braced herself, not sure what sort of mood he’d be in this morning, and not willing to pander to his fits of temper. She’d done nothing wrong last night and didn’t appreciate the rude way he’d dismissed her.
“Nalyx,” she said loudly, and from the expression on his face when he looked up, it was clear he was no more happy to see her than she was to see him. “Come through.” Without a word, he got up and followed her.
