I work slowly, painting oil over bruised skin, around the sutures, careful not to pull. My water magic rises without my permission, cool and steady, smoothing the heat of inflammation under my palm.
Then the feather drifts lower, past the human curve of her shoulder toward where the first row of feathers begins.
Her whole body jerks.
I freeze, feather hovering. “Pain?”
“No.” The word comes out too fast. She draws a sharp breath, and I feel it through the bond as something that is not pain at all. Something that makes my mouth go dry. “Just... you are close.”
Close. As if proximity is all it takes to turn my control into dust.
I swallow and force myself to keep my voice steady. “I am trying to keep you from passing out.”
“I know.” Her laugh is thin. “That is the problem.”
I should pull back. Should keep my hands on her shoulder and nothing else. Should remember she is my prisoner and I am one wrong choice away from turning this fragile truce into another kind of captivity entirely.
But my fingers are already there, smoothing oil along the first damaged feather. The shaft flexes under my touch. The soft down at the base brushes my knuckles like a secret.
Zara shudders. Lightning flickers faintly across her skin, more blush than threat.
I paint the oil along the feather, then the next, slow and careful. The ghost-flower dampens the inflammation, but it does not dampen sensation. If anything, it makes her body more honest—pain fading enough for everything else to rush in behind it.
Her free hand presses to my forearm, gripping hard. Not pushing me away. Holding on.
That simple pressure slides through me like a hook.
“Tell me if I should stop,” I say again, and this time it is not just about the medicine.
She shakes her head once. “Do not stop.”
I keep working, and the feather tip trails lower, toward the hinge where wing becomes body.
Her breath catches so sharply it stutters. Her hips shift, an involuntary search for more contact, and the bond hums like a struck chord.
I do not look at her face. If I do, I will see the need there, and I will not be able to pretend I am only healing her.
My palm cups the curve of her shoulder, steadying her, while the other hand strokes the base of her wing with the feather. Barely. Just enough to spread the oil where the tendons feel tight beneath the skin.
Zara makes a sound—soft, broken—and her fingers dig into my arm.
I go still, heart hammering. ‘Zara.’
“Keep going,” she whispers, and there is something raw in it. “Please.”
Please. The word is a blade and a gift.
I draw a slow breath and let my water magic rise, not as a weapon, but as a shield. Cool mist gathers around us, taming the heat of her lightning and the heat blooming in my own body.
Her back is pressed to my chest. I can feel the line of her spine through the thin fabric. I can feel the way her breath changes when my hand moves.
And I can feel how hard I am getting, trapped behind my own trousers, aching with every second I pretend I am unaffected.
Zara shifts again, restless. Her free hand slips from my forearm to my thigh, then higher, tentative at first, as if she is testing the distance she is allowed.
When her fingers brush the swell of my cock through the fabric, my gills flare in a helpless pulse.
“Torin.” She says my name like a question.
