I shifted on my knees, suddenly all too aware of how close I was, ofhow warm his skin was under my hands. Varyth’s throat worked on a swallow.
“Careful,” he growled. But his voice broke halfway through the word.
“What?” I blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “I was just presenting you with the alternative.”
His jaw tightened, his grip on the chair iron-clad. For once, he had no immediate retort. And I realised, with a thrill of satisfaction, that I had thrown him off.
Then, after a long pause, Varyth let out a soft, humourless laugh. Not amusement. It was darker. More frustrated.
“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
I shrugged, dipped the cloth into the healing salve, watching as the thick, herbal mixture clung to the fabric. As though I hadn’t just ignited a war within him.
But I glanced down at the wound again, properly this time. I hesitated for half a second. “This is going to be unpleasant,” I warned, the teasing edge vanishing. “Given the location.”
I took a steadying breath, then applied the salve to the wound as quickly as I could. Varyth’s entire body locked up, a pained sound escaping his lips.
And before I could process what was happening, one of his hands lifted. His fingers curled around the back of my neck. Probably to ground himself, to keep some kind of hold on reality against the pain. His thumb pressed against my pulse as it betrayed me.
I stilled, my breath catching, my own hands suddenly far too aware of where they rested against him. “You’re fine.”
“That’s…” His jaw clenched. “Debatable.”
I opted not to respond.
Focus on the wound.
Focus on the fucking wound.
I dabbed at it again, and he let out another breath, his fingers tightening before relaxing again.
“I should have told you the truth of it all sooner.” His thumb traced another circle against my neck, the touch sending heat spiralling through me despite everything. “I just... I...”
He trailed off, the words dying in his throat like they were too heavy to carry.
“Yeah, well, secrets are clearly working out so well for you.” I gestured toward his injuries with mock admiration. “I mean, look at this stunning display of tactical genius. Nothing saysHigh Lord in perfect controllike getting carved up by Nyxarian soldiers because you failed to mention crucial details about your enemies.”
A startled laugh escaped him.
“Point taken,” he said, and for once there was no calculation. No weighing of words.
I pushed to my feet, wiping my hands on a clean cloth. “Where do you keep your pain tonic?”
“I don’t need?—”
“Where.”
Varyth’s expression shifted into something stubborn. Infuriating. “I’ll be fine. Fae healing is more than sufficient.”
“Bullshit.” I crossed my arms. “You’re sitting there barely breathing because every breath hurts. Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise.”
“It’s manageable.”
“So is a knife to the gut if you’re immortal enough.” I stepped closer, letting the flames dance higher. “But just because youcansuffer through it doesn’t mean youshould. Now tell me where the pain tonic is, or I will march down to your infirmary, drag a healer up here, and have them sedate you into next week.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” The words came out feral. “I just spent the last hour cleaning your wounds. I’m not in the mood for your self-destructive nonsense.”
