He took small steps as we headed over to my cot. I tried not to notice how solid he felt against me—the warmth of his skin, the weight of his arm across my shoulders. Tried and failed. I lowered him gently onto my cot.
He clasped my hands and pulled me closer, sealing another kiss on my lips. No, this was too fast. He was too weak, and I wouldn’t be responsible for him regressing in his healing.
I wiggled away from him, which was harder than it should have been. His hand lingered on my arm, reluctant to let go. When his fingers finally slipped away, I felt the loss like a cold draft.
“Just sit.”
He watched me with those silver eyes, something unreadable in his expression. I turned away before I could do somethingstupid and immediately stripped his cot. His sheets and blankets were damp from sweat and blood. “Where do they put the dirty laundry?”
He pointed. “Over in that metal bin next to the waterfall.”
I hurried over and nearly gagged. The bin reeked—a thick, rancid mix of old sweat, metallic blood, and mildew. Blankets and sheets were crammed inside, piled almost to the rim.
Next to the bin was a full bottle of Brillig Buggles and a scrub brush. I assumed that was laundry soap.
Men. Clearly, laundry wasn’t high on the rebellion’s priority list.
I found some sheets and blankets in a nearby wooden chest. I returned to Darius’ cot and glanced over at him, half expecting—hoping?—he’d still be watching me.
He had fallen asleep and was stretched out on my cot.
Something in my chest deflated. Good. This was good. He needed rest more than he needed... whatever we'd almost started. I left him alone and quickly prepared his bunk with clean bedding.
His bandages needed to be changed. I headed over to where Doc slept and found some clean bandages and a pair of scissors on a nightstand. On a smaller table nearby sat a small bottle—the same one Doc had used on Darius' wound. Some kind of antibiotic, I assumed.
I headed back. Darius’ soft snores rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He looked peaceful. Younger somehow, with the hard lines of his face relaxed.
I hated to disturb him. But this needed to be done. And hopefully he'd be too tired to pick up where we left off. I wasn't sure I had the strength to resist him twice.
I watched him for a moment. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. His snores hadn't faltered. Maybe I could do this without waking him. It would be easier that way—no silver eyeswatching me, no rough voice making me forget why this was a bad idea.
I carefully cut away his bandages and tried to pull the dirty ones free. It wasn't easy. He was a big man, solid muscle, and I had to slip my hand beneath his back to retrieve the wrappings. His skin was warm against my fingers. I held my breath, waiting for him to stir.
Nothing. Still asleep. Good.
“Would it be easier if I sat up?”
I jumped, jerking my hand back. I glanced up at his face, hoping I could keep this professional. Remember he was wounded. "Did I hurt you?"
“No.” He placed a hand on the cot and tried to push himself upright, groaning with the effort.
“Stop. Let me help.” I clasped his arm and eased him up. “Just ask for help, Darius. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
He didn’t answer. But something flickered in his silver eyes—dark and hungry. The same look he'd given me before he kissed me.
My mouth went dry. So much for keeping this professional.
I dipped a cloth in clean water and wiped away the blood seeping from his wound. Darius stiffened. The ugly blackness that had spread through his veins seemed to have faded. Relief flooded through me.
“It doesn’t look as wicked.”
“Doc’s remedy helps.” He watched me work, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a soft caress. “This isn’t the first time one of us has been hit with a poisonous arrow.”
My hands stilled. “How many times have you almost died?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I stopped counting.”
I didn't know what to say to that. What could I say? I just looked at him—this man who'd survived so much, alone, for so long—and something shifted in my heart.
