I shrink back into the hard metal of the truck.
That arctic stare of his is too white, too frosty, and it’s serrated with a hint of blame, like it’s my fault my hand is exposed to the winter… or it’s my fault our skin touched and he got a shock from it.
“Got stuck,” I murmur, short of breath. “Under there.” I look down at the disturbed snow edging under the truck. “I need my—”
Before I can finish, he’s tossing something at me.
The inhaler clatters on my lap.
And just as I’ve touched it, he’s leaning around me and reaching under the truck.
He feels around for the quickest of moments, then draws his hand back—with my glove in his grip.
I suck the medicinal mist out of the inhaler, watching as he tosses the glove at me. But he makes no move to draw away.
He stays kneeling there, right in front of me, the frost of his stare sweeping over me.
“Are you injured?”
He doesn’t ask out of concern. It’s just duty. Any life-threatening wounds I have, it’s a problem for him and his place in the deals he’s made.
Handing back the inhaler, I shake my head. The tickle of a strand of hair wrinkles my nose.
The ice fae considers me for a long moment.
I’m stagnant under that gaze.
The glove is left ignored on my thigh, the inhaler is loose in his grip, and he just looks at me.
I’m tumbled back in time to the road, the trap, and he cornered me against the hood of the car and lookedintome.
All around us, fae are returning to the bridge. Some hike up the slopes from the riverbank, others return from the highway, dragging humans along with them, but most return from the city, covered in blood, much like him.
Still, he just stares into my fucking soul, rummages around in me, and I’m braced against the intrusion.
Then, finally, he blinks, a flicker of his lashes that casts shadows down the stark pallor of his cheeks—and a muscle feathers in his jaw.
I look away first.
The moment my gaze lands on my lap, something loosens in my chest, a breath that utters out in a rush, the softening of muscles bound too tight.
But the thickness in my throat doesn’t go anywhere, it sticks, lodged, as I fumble with the glove, forcing my fingers into it.
I flex my hand until the glove is snug, then I just sit here, feeling the scrape of his stare running over me.
I keep my gaze down—and notice something.
A small hole in the centre of his palm, big enough to thread a pencil through.
A perfect bullet hole, as though, up there in the battle, he held up his hand to stop a bullet, or slow it down, or catch it—or just to mentally fuck with the people he obviously took great care in dismembering, the way he fucked with us when he loaded and cocked the shotgun.
But his blood is what snags my attention.
His blood is different.
Not just different from mine, red, normal. But different from the black liquid that spills with the texture of tar from the other wounded fae, the warriors returning with burst mouths and bullet holes in their chests, their shoulders, their legs, their arms, and some even their faces.
All of them are bleeding black tar.
