Now how was someone supposed to answer that? While she was well aware of Revelie’s affinity for men, there was no way for Emillie to know for certain if she actually likedJakhov. She had openly claimed to want to get to know him more, but how much of that was for her…and how much of it was for the sake of his bond?
After all, they had been raised to fear and hate dhemons. While Revelie’s experiences outside the Society certainly opened her mind far more than those who had remained firmly planted within its strict rules, Emillie could not say whether thoughts on actual dhemons had been altered. Inside the medic tent, it appeared Revelie did not see them as any different than anyone else. She tended to them, laughed with them, and mourned at their sides as they passed on to the afterlife, but that did not equate to a romantic relationship.
It was also not Emillie’s place, however, to cause distress to anyone for whom she needed to care. As such, she smiled at Jakhov and said, “Revelie likes men, yes.”
Something akin to hope flared in his red eyes. “Revelie likeme?”
Well, fuck.
“Ask Revelie,” she said as her friend turned in their direction and started over, basket of stitching supplies in hand.
Revelie settled in beside Emillie. “Ask me what?”
At first, Emillie opened her mouth to respond, then she glanced at Jakhov, whose eyes widened in fear before he draped his arm over his face to hide his expression. She chewed on the inside of her cheek a moment before finally answering, “If he will be able to fight again tonight.”
Though it was clear that Jakhov did not understand all the words that she used, he definitely understood that she had not, in fact, exposed his curiosity to the woman he had unwittingly bonded to. He peeled his arm back long enough to look at her with a mixture of surprise and gratefulness before a growl ripped free from his throat as Revelie sank her hooked needle into his skin.
“No more fighting for you tonight,” Revelie said to him as she worked.
After the initial shock of the needle, Jakhov relaxed again, his leg still poised on Emillie’s shoulder so her friend could better access the wound on the back of his thigh. He grumbled. “I walk?”
Glancing up at him, Revelie shook her head. “Not tonight. You will rest.”
“I walk?” Jakhov repeated, moving his arm again as he tried to explain his meaning with his eyes. Something about the potential to not walk deeply bothered him.
Emillie nodded. “You will walk again, but tonight you need to rest.”
He glared at the tent ceiling, then asked, “I fight?”
This time, Revelie paused her stitches to pierce him with a stern look. “You will rest until I say so. Do not even think about getting up and going back to that battle tonight.”
It was like watching a spell being cast over the dhemon. His body seemed to relax into the cot as he took in her words and translated them in his own mind before the bond took hold to ensure he would do as she said. Still, he sucked on his sharp teeth before saying, “You stay?”
This was not directed to Emillie, and she suddenly had the feeling she was intruding upon something private between the two of them. Since Algorath, they had spent more and more time together, though never alone. Though Revelie had long sinceabandoned the Society and the expectations that came from once being a Golden Rose, not all of their unfounded rules had been wrung from her mind—including the doctrine that being alone with a man in the midst of a courting was forbidden.
Nonetheless, Revelie smiled at him. “I will be in the tent, but I have other patients to care for as well.”
Jakhov grappled with the new words. “Patients?”
Revelie gestured to the others in their cots. “Patients.Youare a patient.” She prodded his leg, making him hiss again.
Finished with the back side of his thigh, Emillie eased his leg back to the cot so Revelie could have access to the front of the wound. She cleaned off the fresh blood again while her friend cleaned and prepared the needle again.
“Iam Jakhov,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling from the obvious joke.
Emillie moved back to give Revelie room again as her friend said, “YouareJakhov, true.”
A pause as Emillie stood, no longer needed while Revelie began her stitching, then his eyes seemed to glow with a deep intensity. He asked, his voice lower and a little rougher than before, “YourJakhov?”
She should not be eavesdropping like this, yet Emillie could not help it. She cleaned her hands in the basin nearby, waiting for Revelie’s reply. At first, when there was no response, she wondered whether her friend would just let the question go—ignore its existence and move on.
But Revelie replied in a whisper, “Yes.MyJakhov.”
Well…damn. Emillie had not anticipated that. Biting her lip, she raised her brows at Revelie as the seamstress glanced up at her, cheeks flushing. They did not exchange words on the matter, but the pure joy and relief that seeped from the dhemon was enough for Emillie to step away and leave them to their own conversation.
She only hoped that Revelie understood what she was doing. A dhemon’s bond—particularly one that had yet to go through the ritual—was unstable. If Azriel’s reaction in the tent earlier was any indication, if Revelie were to decide she did not want to pursue a relationship with Jakhov, it could turn sour very quickly.
The last thing any of them needed was yet another dhemon teetering on the brink of madness.
