She unlaced the dress with efficient movements, letting it fall to pool at her feet. The shift beneath was thin, already damp with sweat and blood—his and hers. She kept it on as she slipped into the water, the heat a shock after the cold of recent days.
The mineral-rich water reached just below her ribs, the thin shift clinging to her skin, transparent now but she couldn't bring herself to care. Eliam's breathing had gone shallow, controlled—the way it did when he was fighting not to show pain.
Steam rose between them, carrying the scent of earth and stone and something green that belonged to him despite the blood. The ice crystals in his wounds fought the spring's heat, creating wisps of vapor where opposing magics met. She moved behind him, careful not to disturb the water too much, and sucked in a breath at what she saw.
The entry wound was worse from this angle. The ice had spread in veins across his shoulder blade, the skin around it that terrible gray-white of frostbite. Lower, whereMalachar's blade had found the gap between ribs, blood still seeped steadily, refusing to clot.
"This is going to hurt," she warned, though they both knew it already hurt, would continue hurting until the ice magic was purged or killed him.
"Do it." His voice came out rough, tired in a way she'd never heard from him.
She cupped water in her palms, letting it heat her skin before pouring it directly over the shoulder wound. His whole body tensed, muscles locking beneath her touch, but he made no sound. The ice hissed, fighting the heat, and she saw one crystal actually crack and fall away, leaving raw flesh behind.
Again. Cup the water, pour it over the wound. Watch the ice fight and slowly, slowly lose. The warmth in her chest pulsed with each repetition, reaching toward him, wanting to help but not knowing how. She could feel it pressing against the boundaries of her ribs, desperate to flow into him the way it had during the summoning.
"Why did you come for me?" The question escaped before she could stop it, her hands still working, still pouring heated water over wounds that should never have been earned in her defense.
His head turned slightly, not enough to see her but enough to acknowledge the question. "You know why."
"I don't." Another pour of water, another hiss of dying ice. "You cast me out. Made me prey. You were done with me."
"I was angry." The admission came grudgingly, pulled from him like thorns from flesh. "You freed my brother. You betrayed—"
"I made a mistake." Her voice cracked. "I thought I was saving someone like me, someone human and trapped and forgotten. I never meant—"
"I know." Two words, soft enough she almost missed them over the bubble of the spring.
The ice in his shoulder wound had receded to a few stubborn crystals embedded deep. She worked at them carefully, using her fingers now to direct the heated water precisely where it needed to go. Each touch made the warmth in her chest pulse harder, reaching through her hands toward him.
"Karse claimed me," she said, needing him to know though not sure why. "Said I belonged to him because I freed him from chains."
Eliam's laugh was dark, unamused. "The Drak can claim whatever he wishes. It doesn't make it true."
Would now be the moment to tell him what else had happened with Karse? The thought of confessing that desperate coupling on the Star Court's terrace made her stomach turn. Not from shame exactly, but from the knowledge of how it would hurt him—and more confusingly, the certainty that it would hurt him, despite everything.
"The collar," she said instead, her fingers finding the marks it had left on her throat, already bruising dark. "Malachar's collar. It fed on defiance, on anger, on any attempt to fight. It was killing me just for wanting to reach you."
His hand rose from the water, fingers covering hers where they pressed against her throat. The touch was gentle, careful of the bruising, but she felt him trembling—whether from pain or rage, she couldn't tell.
"He'll never touch you again," Eliam said, and there was something final in it, a promise written in blood and thorns.
The last of the ice cracked away from his shoulder wound. The flesh beneath was raw, angry, but no longer infected with winter magic. She moved her attention to the lower wound, the one still seeping steadily.
"This one's deeper," she observed, seeing how the ice had worked its way between his ribs, dangerously close to vital organs.
"I'm aware." His hand dropped back to brace against the stone, and she saw his knuckles go white with the grip.
The warmth in her chest suddenly surged, pushing outward so forcefully she gasped. It wanted out, wanted to flow into him, wanted to heal what winter had broken. Without thinking, she pressed her palm flat against the wound.
The warmth poured through her hand into his flesh like liquid sunlight.
Chapter thirteen
The moment her palm made contact, the warmth erupted from her chest like a dam breaking. Not the gentle flow she'd expected but a torrent, golden and burning and alive. It poured through her hand into his wound with such force that they both cried out—him from the shock of it, her from the sensation of something essential being pulled from her core.
"Briar—" He tried to turn, to pull away, but she pressed harder, her other hand coming up to his uninjured shoulder to hold him in place.
"Don't move." The words came out strained. She could feel it working—the warmth flooding through damaged tissue, meeting the ice magic with violence that made the water around them bubble. "It needs to finish."
