Varyth’s jaw tightened fractionally. “It’s minor.”
“What happened?”
“There were remaining Nyxarian forces that had infiltrated my territory.” His answer was clipped, professional. Like he was delivering a military report instead of explaining why he was currently bleeding in his own chambers. “I needed to ensure they were cleared out before they could establish any permanent positions or pose further danger.”
“You nearly gottortured to deatha week ago.” The words came out sharp enough to draw blood. “What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that leaving hostile forces in my territory was unacceptable.”
“So you went hunting them yourself? While still recovering?” I gestured wildly at him. “Do you have a death wish? Is that what this is?”
“I’m perfectly capable of?—”
“You’re bleeding.” I gestured at where his hand pressed against his ribs. “That doesn’t look like ‘perfectly capable’ to me. That looks like you pushed yourself too hard and tore something open.”
“It’s contained.”
“Contained.” I let out a laugh that was more snarl than amusement. “Right. That’s why you’re standing here trying not to breathe too deeply. That’s why you flinched when I touched you.”
His silver eyes flashed. “I had responsibilities?—”
“You had other people who could handle it.” The words exploded out of me. “You have Lincatheron. Cindrissian. An entire fucking army at your disposal. But instead you decided to play hero while your body was knitting itself back together from the last time you nearly died.”
“I’m not playing?—”
“You’re a fucking idiot.” I pointed at the nearest chair with enough force that black fire trailed from my fingertips. “Sit down.”
“Isara—”
“I said sit down. Or I swear to every god in this realm and the next, I will knock you on your ass and deal with the consequences later.”
For a long moment, we stared at each other. His expression was unreadable, that infuriating mask of control firmly back in place.
Then, slowly, he moved toward the chair.
Victory felt hollow when it came with the sight of him moving carefully, each step measured to avoid aggravating whatever injury he was hiding.
He sank into the chair with more grace than someone in pain had any right to possess. But I saw the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hand never left his ribs.
“Show me.” I pointed to his shirt.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Take. It. Off.”
His lips curved into a smirk. “Eager, aren’t you?”
“Varyth.”
The smirk faded, replaced by a hint of uncertainty. He lifted his hands towards the top button of his shirt, but his fingers hadn’t even brushed the hem before he winced, a breath hissing through his teeth.
“I’m... not sure I can.” His hands clenched into fists like he could squeeze the words back in.
“Let me,” I said, my hands replacing his at the buttons of his shirt.
Varyth looked down at me, and for a moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a sigh, he let his hands drop.
I worked the buttons one by one. My fingers moved deftly to the last button, and I slipped it free. I eased each of his arms out of the shirt, my movements gentle, mindful of each twinge of pain in his face.
