“I mean it,” I said after a moment, wiping away some of the dried blood. “You’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
His teal eyes softened, a fondness shimmering there. “I know,” he said, his tone gentler than I’d ever heard it.
For a second, neither of us said anything.
“You’re actually good at this.” He tilted his head as I worked. “Are you sure you’re not a healer?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Shame. I was going to start demanding you patch me up after every battle.”
I pressed my hand into his wound just to hear him curse again.
“Sadistic little thing,” he muttered.
“Whiny little fae,” I shot back.
Lincatheron let out a breath, shaking his head. “Fenric’s going to lose his mind when he sees this.”
“Will he?” I tied off the makeshift bandage, testing the knots.
Lincatheron flexed his shoulder experimentally, testing the range of motion. He winced only slightly when he pushed too far.
“Yeah,” he said, the word carrying a note of resignation mixed with something warmer. “He does that.”
I raised a brow, unable to resist the opening he’d just handed me. “How strange of him to care about the man he loves. Howabsolutely terrible your life must be, having someone worry when you come home bloody and half-dead.”
The words dripped with enough sarcasm to drown a small village.
Lincatheron’s jaw dropped for a split second before snapping shut, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with blood loss. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in it.
“There we go,” I said, grinning wickedly. “Much more honest than all that stoic commander nonsense.”
“Gods, you’re a nightmare.”
“And you’re bleeding on my nice clean bandages.” I pinched his uninjured arm. Hard.
The sound he made was a thing of beauty. A full-on, betrayed, utterly undignified yelp that I would keep in my memoryforever. His eyes went wide, as if I’d just committed the gravest breach of military protocol imaginable.
“Did you just—” He stared at me in outraged disbelief. “I’m wounded!”
“You deserved it.”
He grumbled under his breath about sadistic humans and power complexes.
I was already tugging him to his feet, enjoying the way he had to scramble to keep his balance. “Now come on, we’re getting you home before you pass out and I have to explain to Fenric why I let his boyfriend bleed to death in a field.”
Lincatheron opened his mouth—probably to argue about his ability to remain conscious—but I was already hauling him toward Kaelen with zero patience for masculine pride. Though I was careful not to jostle his wounded shoulder more than necessary. The man was stubborn enough to collapse out of spite if I pushed too hard.
“Front or back?” I asked when we reached Kaelen’s side, though I already knew what his answer would be.
Lincatheron paused, clearly weighing his options. I could see the internal struggle playing out across his features, wounded pride versus practical concerns about staying conscious during flight.
“Front,” he said finally, and I heard the effort it took him to keep his voice steady.
Smart choice. It would let him maintain some semblance of control, some dignity in this thoroughly undignified situation. And more importantly, it meant I could keep an eye on him if he started swaying.
“Good call,” I said, already positioning myself to give him a boost up into the front of the saddle. “Means you can pretend you’re still in charge.”
