This close, I’m drawn to the binding encircling his wrist. The ornament captivates me. Strips of black leather have been wrapped around an under band. Intricate black stitching is nearly lost amid all the shadows. The pattern, though hardly perceptible in the dim light, almost looks like the stitching of a weaver witch.
“Now, Faelyn, you will apply the salve”—his hands move mine, pulling off the wooden lid to the jar—“and then we will go to sleep.”
Evander gently relinquishes my hands, only to find placement on either side of my ribs. I cannot help a soft yelp of surprise. With tender care I didn’t suspect him to possess, he maneuvers me toward the back of the tent and then moves behind me, turning to face the entrance.
He’s offering me privacy, I realize with surprise. I’d been expecting that his hands would follow mine as they slipped under the waistband of my trousers, then beneath my shirt. Seeking to exploit the movements. To show me just how vulnerable I was to him in my current predicament.
But he refrained. While I’m grateful for it, I’m not about to laud him for exhibiting the bare minimum of decency. Especially not when doing so has helped keep his groin from being crushedunder my elbow or heel. If he thinks I won’t fight through fear then he’s in for a rude awakening.
Even with our backs to each other, my heart races, pounding against my ribs as I place my satchels in the corner and slowly undo the ties at the top of my trousers. Evander remains as still as a statue. Yet, without looking, without him moving, I can feel him there. The only other time I have been so acutely aware of a man’s breathing was moments before Liam’s lips first met mine.
I scoop the salve and slip my hand under the band of my trousers, reaching for the torn flesh of my thighs. There must have been something in the tonic to numb the pain, because pressing the salve into the ravaged skin isn’t nearly as agonizing as it should have been. I finish one thigh, then move on to the next.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Evander says it so softly that I think I imagine it.
“What?” I ask, hoping I did.
“I can hear how fast your heart is beating… Faelyn, I won’t hurt you.”
“What makes you think I will ever be able to trust you?” My hands move to the wounds on my shoulders, exposing my stomach and lower chest in the process.
“Nothing.” He chuckles softly. The sound lacks all joy; it’s fueled by bitterness. “Nor should you.”
“Contradicting yourself isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.” I finish up, wiping the remaining salve on my trousers before lacing them back up. “I’m done.”
“It isn’t?” Evander turns at the same time as I do, our eyes meeting once more. “Are you certain? Because your heart slowed.”
“It slowed because my pants were done up again. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Are you saying taking off your pants around me makes your heart race?” There’s the bare minimum of a smirk.
I hand him the salve with a slight narrowing of my eyes, not dignifying that with a response. “I should rest.”
“You should.” He returns the jar to his pack and then moves to the side of the tent without the bedroll at the same time as me. We nearly bump into each other. “Take the bedroll,” he says as I glare up at him. We’re so close that the wavy strands of his hair nearly brush against my forehead.
“I’m going to sleep with Aurora.”
“What part of ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight’ did you not understand?” Evander tilts his head to the side. His hair does touch me with the motion and it’s so brief that I fight a shiver.
“You can’t honestly expect me to sleep here.”
“Take the bedroll,” he repeats. “I’ll take the ground.”
“How kind,” I sneer.
“I try, just for you.” He mocks me with a smile.
I roll my eyes and shift to the bedroll. I do need to keep my strength, and arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere.
“You’re not going to lull me into a false sense of security,” I caution. “You told me what your people are capable of.”
“Good that you remember. It’d be even more dangerous if you forgot. Your caution might be the only thing that keeps you alive here in Midscape.” He settles on the ground next to the bedroll. I hope it’s full of spiky shells and rocks. I hope the sand chafes and grinds and gets in his ears. “Other than me.”
“You’re keeping me alive?” I snort softly in disbelief as I lay down. The moment I’m horizontal, exhaustion hits me all at once. My lids are immediately heavy.
“Yes, Faelyn, I am,” he insists softly.
“For your king.” As I tuck farther into the bedroll, I’m enveloped by his scent—a blend of salt, musk, and windsweptmeadows that is somehow both achingly familiar and, yet, like nothing I have ever smelled before.
