“This is going to hurt.”
A muscle pulses in his jaw. “Get it over with.”
The scent of crushed grapes hits my nose, and my body clenches in longing the moment the wine pours across his open wound. Boreas stiffens, curses spitting from his mouth. His lips peel back from his teeth, which have begun to lengthen, shadows rising to blot his skin, hands clamped around the arms of his chair.
Grabbing one of the clean cloths, I soak it in the hot water, then begin patting the area around the wound. His abdominal muscles contract, and he hisses out another vehement curse.
“Oh, hush.”
A tremor races beneath his pale skin, drawing out additional shadows. His eyes pool black, and his voice roughens to an animalistic growl. “You’re killing me.”
My mouth goes dry at the sight of him fighting the darkwalker’s influence. Short, ebon nails prick the ends of his fingers. “I already tried that,” I say without a shred of remorse. “Multiple times. It didn’t work. Hold still.”
“Multiple times? How—” He expels an anguished groan as I douse the remainder of the wine over his flesh, killing any possible infection.
“Next time,” I remark, “you should bring Alba. I don’t know why you didn’t insist on it. She is the best of your healers.”
“Alba is better served overseeing the health of my staff and w—” He breaks off.
My attention lifts from his stomach. “You were going to saywife, weren’t you?” There must be something wrong with me, to be warmed by the possibility.
“And if I was?” That probing blue gaze locks on mine, and its intensity squeezes the air from my lungs. “Your health is important to me.”
“Mm.” I completely fail at attempting to fight my smile. Gods, I’m sick.
It takes ten minutes to clean and bandage the wound. Thankfully, the injury isn’t deep enough to warrant stitches. Slumped in the chair,Boreas watches me through half-lidded eyes as I wind the cloth around his lower abdomen and tie it off near his hip.
At last, I step away. “You should rest.”
“I need to return to my men.” Yet he doesn’t move.
Seeing the depth of his exhaustion, something softens in me. “What happens if the specters die? I mean, they’re technically already dead, they just haven’t fully passed on, right?”
“They will return to the Les to await their second Judgment.” As if in response to an unspoken question, he says, “They can feel pain, same as the living. Physical pain can last long after a wound has healed.”
He does not mention emotional pain, and I do not ask.
“Rest,” I say. “I’ll let you know if anyone comes looking for you.”
The Frost King closes his eyes with a weary sigh. Within minutes, he’s asleep.
While he rests, I wash the blood from his soiled armor and tunic. The clothes need to be cleaned, and I am here. At the very least, it allows me to pass the time quickly.
That done, I change into clean clothes. I stoke the fire to a blaze. I lay a blanket over his torso and remove his boots. The air thickens with drowsy heat.
Perching on the edge of the mattress, I keep watch over the man who is my husband.
Boreas sleeps soundly, long legs outstretched, that full mouth softly parted. His lower torso hangs off the edge of the chair, which is too small to accommodate his large frame comfortably. While I do not agree with the king’s decision to bury the Gray in ice, I can understand wanting to protect his realm from invaders.
I have pondered such things. The Deadlands, like Boreas, is not all darkened hollows. There is Makarios, his brightest star. These last few days he has revealed a man who is not so aloof, whose soldiers regard him with the highest respect, and whose sparse affections might blossom beneath the right touch.
Lifting the blanket, I take in the white bandage wrapped around his stomach, his chest rising steadily. I prod gentle fingertips around theedge of the cloth, testing the temperature of his skin. Cool, without inflammation. No sign of infection.
When I lift my eyes, I find the Frost King watching me through a slitted gaze.
My heart dips, and I slowly straighten, for in his blown pupils simmers an unexpected heat.
“I was checking your wound for infection,” I rasp out. “It’s clean.”
