It’s not until I reach the waistband of his trousers that I realize there’s at leastonepart of him that’s still alert and aware of my touch. The bulge beneath his pants pressing against the fabric has the odd effect of making my mouth dry and my whole body frozen in place.
Don’t be ridiculous,I chastise myself. He’s injured and needs treatment. It’s not improper to continue to strip him. And it’sonlyfor medical purposes, not for the pleasure of my own gaze.
So what if it was?a small voice pipes up in the back of my mind.He’s your betrothed, and has invited you to his bed more than once.
Before I have a chance to counter that devilish thought, Xandril’s hand wraps around my wrist, keeping me from moving any further.
Oh gods. Was he aware through all of that? My touching and exploring? Fingers doing far more than necessary, far more than cleaning and looking for wounds. My face burns hotter than the lava that lives inside him, and I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze.
“You should stop touching me,” he says, the deep rumble of his warning sending shivers down my spine.
Whether it’s his voice or his enormous hand clamped around my wrist like a shackle, something makes me want to defy him, to pull free of his grasp and continue my exploration. The goosebumps spreading down my arms and the warmth rising up the back of my neck aren’t enough to deter me, either.
But that’s ridiculous. If the man doesn’t want me to touch him—or his impossibly-hot, color-shifting skin—then I should refrain from doing so. Betrothed or not.
“I…er…” My voice is hardly more than a croak, my throat so tight, mouth so dry. His fingers around my wrist feel like a branding iron, but I know from the dim glow beneath his skin that it’s only an imagined burn, not a real one.
“I need to check you for injuries,” I say, finally finding my voice. Wetting my lips, I continue, pulling my gaze up to meet his. “Is it really so unbearable to suffer my touch?” I move to pull away, but his grip tightens.
“No,” he says, jaw clenched tight like it’s a great effort to say it. “But if you continue to touch me, I will be unable to stop myself from touching you in return.”
All thoughts flee my mind while I scramble to make sense of what he’s just said. Neither of us has moved, but the heat from where his fingers are wrapped around my wrist is moving up from my arm, down my spine, through my whole body. Surely this must be what it feels like for him when his heat flares.
“Well…but you’re hurt,” I argue weakly. “You need tending.”
“I will heal,” he says, each word still ground through clenched teeth. “The throne may not have fully accepted me yet, but it won’t let me die, either. Its power is enough to sustain and heal me.”
“Oh,” is all I say after a long pause, my shoulders sagging. I guess the magic cure-all is actually just being the king.
Now what? For a brief moment, I didn’t feel quite so lost in this world. Having something to work toward, being able to use my skills…it was nice while it lasted.
After another long beat, Xandril releases my wrist. How quickly I forgot he was still touching me. How quickly the absence of that touch leaves me feeling strangely unmoored. Cold.
Withdrawing my hand, I hold it against my chest, clutching my wrist with my other hand like my own warmth might be sufficient to fix this.
“Is there anything that can aid the process?” I ask. He’s determined to do this alone, but what good is having a spouse if they are not also a partner you can count on? I’m just as determined to help him.
He doesn’t have the strength to pick up his head, yet he still hesitates, likely debating with himself if he’ll show a hint of vulnerability, even to his betrothed. The longer he waits, the more I think he’s expecting me to give up or move on.
If those are the expectations he has of me, he’s going to continue to be disappointed.
“Food,” he says with a sigh. “It will speed my healing.”
“Great!” I answer a little too loud, and my voice echoes in the room. I clear my throat, then try a more reasonable volume. “I’ll have Morwen bring some things from the kitchen.”
Slowly, and with a great deal of what appears to be painful effort, Xandril lifts himself to lean on an elbow. “I will managewithout your supervision,” he says, a clear dismissal that isn’tquiteclear enough to be undeniable.
“Duly noted,” I answer, stepping out of the room long enough to speak with Morwen.
He’s not getting rid of me that easily.
Chapter Seventeen
Xandril
Itry to exhale, but the pain in my side stops me short. Breathing in is no better. There’s a weight like the ifrak calf on my chest, and each struggling breath leaves me more hungry for air than before.
She’s gone.
