Pashov gestures at his broken horn. “Can you smooth this out for me?”
Oh. Of course. I’m a little disappointed I’m obviously the only one thinking dirty thoughts. He has no mirror, so of course he needs my help to file down his broken horn. I grip the rock tight, wondering how I’m going to do this. He’s a great deal taller than me—almost two feet, really. Even as I consider this, I’m still a little shocked when he kneels in front of me, his face upturned to mine. There’s something curiously intimate about him on his knees before me.
Either that or my brain is just in the gutter. Permanently.
Also entirely possible.
From this angle, I get a good look at the stump of his horn. The edges are rough and jagged, but there’s a smooth stump of bone underneath that looks untouched. I can’t help but touch it. “Does it hurt?”
“It does not.” His voice sounds thick. When I glance over at him, his eyes are closed, his expression tight. “If you can, grind down the hard edges, please.”
“Will it help it grow back?”
“No, but I worry I will accidentally stab you or Pacy with the edges.”
“Not much of a chance of that happening,” I murmur, though it’s sweet of him to think of us. “You’re two feet taller than I am.”
“When we lie in bed together, we are the same height.”
Is he thinking about lying in bed with me, then? I feel a warm flush of pleasure. “I see.” I hold the grinding stoneagainst the remnants of his horn and hesitate. “This won’t hurt you?”
“I will feel nothing, I promise.”
I lean in, and his hands go to my waist. He’s just steadying me, of course, but as I put the stone against his horn again, I realize that his face is level with my breasts. And now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t stop thinking about it. I rub the stone against one jagged break, and my breasts sway in response to the movements. Oh boy.
He doesn’t grab my tits, though. Nor does he even comment on the fact that they’re shaking in his face like maracas as I saw down the hard, broken points of his horn. He just kneels, utterly still, as I work on his horn. And I’m a little disappointed. Doesn’t having my breasts in his face do anything for him?
I finish smoothing down the hard edges and study my work. Now instead of all splintered, it’s smooth and a little sad-looking. “Did you say the healer could fix this for you?”
“She cannot fix it, but she can encourage it to re-grow,” he tells me as I hand him the stone. “I will not be like Raahosh forever. Does it bother you?”
I think of Raahosh, his face scarred and his horns broken and twisted. He’s not the most attractive alien. Would I still be in love with Pashov if he was as frightening-looking as the fierce Raahosh? I study him and decide that I would. It’s not the broken horn that turns me off, it’s what it represents. It reminds me that I nearly lost him, and I hate the sight of it. “It’s fine. How long will it take to grow back?”
He shrugs. “When Pacy is grown, it should return to its full size.”
Oh my goodness. That long?
I must show my surprise, because he gets to his feet and pats my shoulder. “I am sorry.”
Why is he sorry? It’s not his fault. I was the one who sent him back into the storage cave to get spices that day. If his injury is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. “Don’t apologize.”
He smiles crookedly at me. “I do not want you to have a mate that is unpleasant to look at.”
I’m shocked at this. Why would he think that?
I stare at him as he dusts the fine grains of ground-up horn off his shoulders. Then again, why wouldn’t he think that? The few times he’s touched me, I’ve cried. I’ve given him nothing to indicate that I’m attracted to him, and he doesn’t remember our past together. And the horns…maybe those are a pride thing with sa-khui men. I never thought about it before, but everyone always talks about Raahosh’s horns like they’re shockingly terrible. Maybe because I don’t have horns, I’ve never thought about it.
But I’m thinking about it now.
Pashov finishes shaking himself off and strips down to his loincloth. Once his leather leggings are off, he tosses them aside and then reaches for the washcloth I’ve left drying by the fire. He dunks it in the water and begins to scrub at his bare chest, all vigorous movements and determination.
I suddenly realize that I’ve been going about this all wrong.
I’ve been pushing my mate away and treating him like he’s a stranger. He’s the same person. He’s the same sweet, funny, flirty man I fell in love with. He’s just missing a patch of his memory. And yet I’m acting like he’s someone completely new, a stranger wearing my lover’s face.
It’s the same person.
And I’m an idiot because my actions have been pushing us further apart when I should have been working to pull us together.
