Anger claws in my chest. No gratitude, no words of appreciation. I should have let that villager carve him up out of spite.
He begins to turn away when I notice a dark stain spreading across his abdomen. The fresh blood glistens. “You’re hurt,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Let me see.”
He attempts to tug free of my grip. “I’m fine,” he growls, exasperated.
“You’re not.”
“Wife—”
“Sit down,” I hiss, shoving him into a chair. He stares at me in bewilderment as I unbuckle his breastplate, toss the blood-spattered metal aside, and peel away his tunic to reveal a grisly gash above his right hip bone. I suck in a sharp breath. It looks deep.
“It’s nothing,” Boreas says. “I barely even feel it.”
Without taking my eyes from the wound, I shout, “Orla!”
My maid bursts into the tent, panting heavily. “Yes, my lady?” She glances between me and the king nervously.
“I need hot water, bandages, and wine.” A flicker of what might be fear tightens Boreas’ expression. “Lots of wine.”
“No,” he barks. “No wine.”
I tense, recognizing what remains unsaid. “I’m not going to drink it. It’s to disinfect your wound.”
“I don’t care—”
“I said I’m not going to drink it,” I retort. “You either trust my word, or you don’t. So which is it?” My cheeks burn with humiliation, his assumption that I might weaken now, of all times. It has happened before. Twice in the past eight years I’ve been sober, but never longer than six weeks. It’s been four weeks since I woke following my near-death ordeal. Each day has felt like a year, but drinking is the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.
His lips twitch, yet he gives a curt nod.
Orla makes herself scarce. Meanwhile, Boreas watches me as if I’m swinging around a particularly sharp object. “I’m going to examine your wound,” I say, peering down at him. “You’re going to sit there and deal with it. If you fuss, I’m going to make it hurt.”
In answer, he leans back in the chair, grumbling about women and their penchant for petty violence.
I study the gash closely. “Your wound should have healed by now.” Yet it looks as fresh as I imagine it had hours ago, the skin red and inflamed, the edges pulped.
He grunts a noncommittal response.
Orla returns with the necessary supplies. I accept the bucket of hot water, cloth bandages, and wine from my maid, who makes a hasty retreat when the king growls at her for stepping too close.
I pinch his thigh.
His eyes cut to mine. “What was that for?”
“You’re scaring Orla. She’s trying to help, you ungrateful heathen.”
He shifts in the chair, his attention flitting from me, to the bucket, to the wine.
“Afraid of a little pain?” I ask sweetly, batting my lashes. I think I’m going to enjoy this.
As I wet the cloth, his hand snaps out, strong fingers shackling my wrist. His bare chest rises and falls fitfully. “Are you trained in healing?”
My lips purse. “I know enough.” A moment passes. “You need to let go of my wrist.”
“It’s nothing but a scratch.”
“And thisscratchshould have healed by now, but it hasn’t.” Might that, too, be an effect of his weakening power?
Slapping his hand aside, I begin to gently clean the blood and grit from his skin. Once that’s done, I grab the wine. My stomach twists in memory of the liquid sliding down my throat, but I made a promise. I want to be better. I deserve more than the half-life I was living, and my mind has never been so clear.
