I try to circle behind him, but he’s faster. Not so fast that I don’t glimpse a flash of red and black puckered skin. I gasp, tears springing to my eyes. “Aspen! Is that from me?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m already beginning to heal.”
“But I...I did that.”
“You didn’t know.”
“You carried me here on your back in stag form and I burnt you the entire time.” This is the first time I’ve been forced to consider what features fae carry between forms. If even his clothing has been destroyed, then I can only imagine his stag fur and flesh burnt to a crisp.
My stomach churns and I reach for the sponge of moon moss. He lifts his hand over my head, snatching it out of my reach. “You aren’t healed yet.” His eyes flash over my torso, covered only by the remnants of my burnt blouse.
I try to stretch for the moss, but wince as the motion sears my side. Hoping he didn’t notice, I say, “Let me tend to your wounds, damn you.”
“No, Evie.” His voice is firm yet gentle. “For once in your life, let someone else put your wellbeing above their own.”
His expression has me swallowing all argument. Instead, I offer a compromise. “We’ll take care of each other then.”
He releases a sigh. “Fine.”
I glance again at my chest, then start to undo the buttons. Aspen averts his gaze, shifting from foot to foot. It reminds me of how awkward he was before our conversation in the alley. Before our kiss. I hope what’s happened since then hasn’t pushed us a step back again.
What’s happened since.Flames and smoke fill my mind, and the image of my mother falling from an iron bullet. Sorrow washes over me, threatening to drag me into a black void of endless grief. The feeling is so terrifying, I reach for my quickest defense—my fire. Anger ignites, but instead of fueling me, it increases the sharpness of my wounds. I cry out in pain, my legs collapsing beneath me.
Aspen catches me before my head goes beneath the surface of the water. He pulls me close, hand on my cheek as he tilts my head toward his. “Just focus on me right now.”
I breathe away my pain, my anger, and focus on his face, the color of his eyes, the angle of his jaw. Facts. Shapes. Logic. It settles me.
“There will be time to grieve and rage after your body is healed,” he says.
Once the strength returns to my legs, I pull away from him, but only slightly. This time, he reaches for the buttons of my blouse himself. I shudder as the fabric falls away, then I reach down to slip off my tattered trousers. He brings the moon moss toward me, but I shake my head. “You too.”
With a grumble, he allows me to pull the scorched linen off his chest, separate it from the burns on his back. My stomach roils as I examine the full extent of the damage I’ve caused.
Freed from our clothing, I finally allow Aspen to tend to the burns on my torso. I keep my eyes locked on his, emptying my mind of the terrors that lurk behind every thought, every breath. When all traces of stinging pain leave my chest, Aspen hands me the moss and turns his back to me.
I have to extend my arms to reach the top of his shoulders, but I’m relieved to see the immediate effects of the moss and water taking place. His skin seems to repair even faster than mine, which I’m assuming must have to do with his heritage. Being the son of Queen Melusine gives him an advantage over the water element.
I watch as the charred skin falls away, revealing new pink skin in its place. His golden coloring has yet to emerge, but his healing is promising. Blisters shrink and dissolve, returning the smooth planes of his back, the strong angles of his shoulder blades. A tender feeling stirs inside me, breaking through the chaos that I’m somehow able to keep at bay. Even after Aspen’s skin has fully healed, I linger over him, letting my hands trail up and down his back as I study the curve of his spine, the muscles in his arms and shoulders. The silence of our bated breaths speaks louder than any words we can say.
Aspen shudders at my final touch before turning to face me, hand moving to the back of my neck. With gentle fingers, he pulls my damp hair over one shoulder, a wordless signal for me to turn around. As I do, he takes the moss and brings it to my back. With my pains nearly gone, every touch feels like a welcome caress.
My mind begins to wander to the dangerous territory of blood and fire, and I quickly force myself to focus on Aspen’s touch. But a memory remains, one neutral enough for me to consider without much harm. I break the silence around us. “When I was burning, I remember you telling me to take it to the Twelfth Court. What did you mean by that?”
Aspen runs the moss over the back of my neck, my upper shoulders. “If you’d taken your rage to the Twelfth Court, you would have been able to more evenly distribute your fire, use it for transformative purposes.”
His words do nothing to clear my confusion. “What does that mean?”
“That’s how the fae shift into our unseelie forms. It’s one way, at least. Most of us can shift at will, but strong emotion or an overuse of our power can shift us without effort. Sometimes, that can be detrimental, but in your case, I think it would have helped.”
“You really think I could have...shifted forms?”
“I’m not sure, but I think so.”
“How would it have helped? Would I not have felt the same rage?”
“You would have been more in control of it on an instinctual level,” Aspen says. “You would have used most of your excess fire in the act of physically shifting. It takes magic to shift forms, and you had a dangerous amount to spare.”
I furrow my brow, pondering Aspen’s words. Nyxia hadn’t told me this when I relayed my doubts about having the ability to shift. From how he describes it, it makes a sort of logical sense.
