She didn’t believe a damn word out of his mouth.
But escape wasn’t possible. Even if she could move the heavy mechanical equipment he’d put in front of the door, it only took a peek through a gap in the boards over the windows for her to determine they were thoroughly snowed in.
“I’ll make dinner soon,” he informed her in that rolling rumble.
The butterflies in her belly were deeply vexing. Almost as much as him holding her captive. “I don’t want your dinner.”
“I’ll make it all the same,” he replied, unruffled. “It’s a mate’s job to provide.”
Mabel’s chin jutted. “I don’t want a mate, either.”
“And yet you have one, just as you’ll have dinner.” He flashed her a smile full of lower fangs. “The gods know what’s best for you and have delivered it without you needing to ask.”
“Witches don’t have their mates thrust upon them,” she corrected him. “Wechoose.”
Henrik nodded. Setting down his small knife and whittled stick, he laid his hands on the desk he’d turned into a table. He gave her a very serious look when he asked, “And have you chosen?”
Her face pinked. “That’s an awfully impertinent question.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. We’re strangers, and you’re an enemy besides.”
Henrik gave her a long look. “We’re not strangers. We’re clan now. I ought to know if there’s a man out there I’m stealing you from.”
Indignant on behalf of her imaginary suitor, Mabel stood up from her spot on the sleeping mat. “Sir, if Iweremarried or bonded, I can assure you, no one wouldeverbe able to steal me from them.”
The orc leaned back in his chair. It creaked ominously under his considerable bulk as he gave her a slow, satisfied smile. “Aye, that’s a good answer, my blessing.”
Her blush deepened. “What’s your plan, orc? Drag your new mate back to your superiors and conscript me into service? I bet you’ll get a fine commendation for that!”
Henrik pushed himself away from the desk. It didn’t take an experienced healer to catch the sharp wince that briefly tightened his features as he stood, let alone the fresh bloom of blood that stained his shirt.
Giving his head a small shake, he summoned a smile. “As of this moment, my plan is to feed my mate and make sure her nest is warm. I suspect it will be much the same tomorrow.”
Mabel tried to maintain her glower as she watched him turn toward the stove, but it wasn’t easy watching his face drain of color like that. Every small movement seemed more difficult than before, and the sloppy dressing on his wound raised her hackles.
A bad dressing or improperly cleaned wound meant infection. Infection meant gangrene. Gangrene meant death — if you were lucky.
A healer could work miracles, but once infection set in, they were little better than the butchers who called themselves surgeons.
She didn’t need to heal the orc. He’d kidnapped her, after all, and absconded with her to only the gods knew where. Even small battlefield wounds could prove fatal, but he was a big, strapping man. He could, and likelyhad,survived much worse. Not to mention the fact that healing him was technically treason.
But when he had to brace a hand on the wall as he put pressure on his bandage, she couldn’t donothing.
Rubbing her eyes, she wrestled with her professional pride and her loyalties. She lost. “Henrik,” she sighed, “sit down.”
Straightening quickly, he assured her, “I’m fine, my blessing. I just needed a moment.”
“No, you need healing.” Forcing her boots across the floor, she gestured toward his chair. “Sit.”
He turned toward her. For a moment, he seemed unsure about whether she meant it or not, but when she met his questioning look with a raise of her eyebrows, he sprang into action. Or as much as he could under the circumstances, anyway.
Henrik fell back into the chair with a muffled groan.
It was normally the easiest thing in the world to quiet the part of her that was Mabel in favor of the part of her that was a healer. She’d been trained ruthlessly by the head healers in Minneapolis to set herself aside — mentally, physically, emotionally — to care for her soldiers. On the battlefield, there was no room for delicate sensibilities or proper manners. Whatever maidenly squeamishness she’d once possessed had long since died.
And yet, when she ordered him to strip, she felt… unprofessional.
