When Hojat finishes, he’s treated the wounds, my nose long since acclimated to the scent of the sharp herbs. I don’t know if he did something to help dull the pain or if I’ve simply gone numb, but I barely feel a thing now.
He’s also given me a new oversized shirt that he has me wear backwards, so all the buttons are down my spine, making it easier to tend to my wounds.
“Alright, Lady Auren,” he says quietly. “It’s all done now.”
It’s all done now, I tell myself. So I wipe away the last of my tears and take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Hojat.” My voice comes out as a mere rasp, but the mender hears, because he gives a gentle pat on my shoulder.
“I’ll need to check it each day for a while until the healing process speeds up.”
I nod, feeling wrung out, lethargy tugging at my bones.
“Sir Digby?” Hojat says. “How about I take a look at you next?”
When Digby doesn’t reply, I turn my head to face him. He’s still standing sentry in the doorway, and I don’t think his gaze has left me for even a second. I notice how heavily he’s leaning against the wall, how his arm is tucked in tight against his ribs and how one leg seems to be giving him trouble. He won’t go without prompting, just like he never once ducked out early on a shift to guard me.
I give him a nod. “Your turn, Dig.”
He hesitates for a moment before his eyes pass over me and land on Slade. I’m not sure what the two men communicate, but Digby glances back at me with a tilt of his head, and then he and Hojat walk out, closing the door behind them.
As soon as they’re gone, I start to sit up, and Slade is instantly there to help me. Despite how much I’ve been sleeping, my body feels exhausted again, but my mind is too wired to sleep.
I hold the borrowed shirt against my chest, the back still undone. “Can I clean up a little?”
“Of course.” Slade helps me to my feet and leads me to an attached washroom. It’s small but clean, with a round tub, a washbasin, toilet, and a wooden vanity.
“I could fill the bath for you, but we’d have to keep the water quite low so we don’t get your bandages wet.”
“No, that’s alright. I’ll just clean up as best I can for now and do that tomorrow before he wants to change the bandages.”
With a nod, Slade walks over to the vanity and pulls out a small stool. I take the hint and pad over to it, gingerly taking a seat. I watch as he moves around the room methodically, quietly, and I wonder what he’s thinking. But I’ve never been able to read his thoughts as well as he’s been able to read mine.
He grabs a glass vial from the vanity before going to the washbasin. The bowl set into it is a deep blue, the wood around it the same color as the floor. He pours some of the mixture into the bowl and then reaches up, pumping out water from a silver spigot on the wall. Water splashes into the basin, filling it with small bubbles, and he grabs a washing cloth from a hanging rack before dunking it in.
I watch as he wrings it out, his forearms visible from the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. The twisting movement of his hands fascinates me, especially in the low lantern light. From this angle, I’m able to study the profile of his face, and something in me aches just to look at him.
When he turns and walks over to me, I hold out my hand for the cloth, but he says, “May I?”
Taken aback, I hesitate. Washing someone, tending to them in this way, it’s intimate—intimate in a completely different way than sex. I clutch the shirt against my chest, my mind trying to come up with what I want, and he doesn’t rush me. He just waits, and I know that if I say no, he’ll pass me the cloth and that will be the end of it.
But I don’t want him to pass the cloth.
Swallowing hard, I stand up and reach back, undoing the top two buttons at my shoulders. Since the shirt is so large, I’m able to peel the sleeves off one at a time, letting it fall to the ground. Even with the strips of bandages wrapped around me, I still feel exposed. I twitch, arms ready to come up to cover myself, but Slade is always a step ahead.
His calloused hand comes down to circle my wrist, and he gently encourages me to sit. As soon as I do, he starts to drag the cloth over the skin of my arm with the gentlest touch. I suck in a breath, jolting a little at how cold it is.
Slade chuckles. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”
Yet every stroke he makes against my skin doesn’t stay cold for long. How could it when he’s touching me?
He works quietly and thoroughly, my arm being swept with soap and water, while his free hand threads his fingers between mine, gently bending my wrist backwards and forwards. He bends my fingers next, releasing the tension in each one, before he starts to slowly stroke up my other arm.
By the time he’s finished with that, my entire body has gone supple and soft. He moves his attention to my shoulders, massaging into the tense muscles, careful not to get close to my spine, meticulous in his gentleness so he doesn’t hurt me.
It doesn’t turn sexual, even though my nipples harden into points and my breath catches a few times. Slade just continues to take care of me, easing the stress and the tension from my body one muscle at a time.
When I help him peel off my leggings next, he kneels at my feet, that slow drag of the cloth making me just as languid as before. But when he digs his fingers into the arches of my feet, my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head.
