“Really. I’ll get you later, I promise.”
She nods. “Fine, but if you get an infection anddie,” she says, turning back to Aemon, “don’t come whining to me.”
A smile plays at the corners of his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mumbling to herself about idiot men and god complexes, she scoops up her pitcher and tosses me a ball of torn strips of fabric. “That’s all we have,” Jael says when she catches me eyeing the ball of scraps.
Of course. They’re not going to waste real medical supplies on a bunch of slaves. It’s a wonder she even managed to get these. “Thank you.”
Her lips pull into a warm smile. “Anytime.” Then she shoots a glare at Aemon and scurries off to give us the privacy he asked for.
Aemon lets out a breath as though he’s relieved she left.
“Jael’s right. I don’t know anything about non-magical healing.”
He grabs my other hand, so he’s now clasping both of mine in his. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, Aemon.”
“Shh.”
Did he just shush me?
I’m about to give him a good tongue lashing—injured or not—but before I can get my thoughts in order, he throws me for a loop. “I can heal myself.”
I draw back. “What? How?”
“I just need a little time to do it, and I don’t want anyone to see,” he says, not really answering my question. “Just stay here with me?”
He’s being all sweet and pitiful and my stupid heart is fluttering like a hummingbird got stuck in there. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you.” He closes his eyes and takes long, deep breaths through his nose.
And I watch his back.
At first, I don’t see much of anything. Then, my mouth hanging open in awe, I watch as the blood rises from his wounds like liquid squeezed from a sponge, and rolls to either side of his back to spill onto the rocks below. Four slashes, gaping and bloodless, remain. They extend all the way from his right shoulder to the small of his back, bits of bone and even one knobby vertebra jutting out from the severed skin. I can’t even imagine how much pain he’s in, but Aemon remains stoic. Eyes closed, his hand gripping mine so tight it hurts, he takes slow, measured breaths and concentrates. At Duje, the healers would heal an injury by simply pulling the ravage bits back together, but Aemon builds himself anew. Slowly,millimeter by excruciating millimeter, pink tissue fills his wounds. Then fresh skin forms along the ragged tears and works its way across the newly formed flesh, leaving his back as smooth and unmarred as the day he was born.
“H-how did you do that?” I’d seen acolytes heal using a spelled stone, but nothing like this.
Aemon gives me a smug smile. “I’m not exactly sure, to be honest.” With a grunt of effort, he pushes up onto his knees, then settles back on his heels.
He hasn’t got a stitch of clothing on.
Too late, I divert my gaze, looking at the floor, the ceiling, the outhouses I passed on the way here, back to the floor. Anywhere but at Aemon. It’s not that I haven’t seen a nude man before. Thanks to my penchant for jumping into others’ minds while I sleep, I have been an unwilling participant in many a late-night tryst. In fact, I am possibly the most experienced virgin to ever live. But this is different. Aemon is different. One look at him, and I’ve lost my ability to breathe, to think. My belly drops to my feet and my mouth goes dry.
Aemon’s body is a work of art. He’s not bulky, but long and lithe, his impossibly broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist where a dusting of hair runs between the V of his hips, like a big damn arrow, pointing right at his cock. My fingers itch to reach out and touch him, feel the way his muscles stretch and flex beneath velvety skin.
I’ve taken a few steps back, my eyes still searching for something to look at besides Aemon when he says, “Good gods, Katya, what are you wearing?”
“What am I wearing?” I scoff and glance his way. Yep. Still naked. “Have you looked at yourself?”
“Katya,” he says, his tone dead serious. “What happened to your clothes?”
“This conversation would be a lot more productive if you covered yourself up.”
He huffs. “Better?”
I peek back at him. He’s wrapped Jael’s towel around his waist. It’s so tiny, it barely covers that beast between his legs and does nothing to conceal its shape. “Marginally,” I reply.
