The man wedges a hand under my armpit and pulls me gently to my feet as if I weigh no more than a feather. I watch with morbid curiosity the way the muscles of his arms coil and relax beneath the fabric of his shirt.
“I can’t very well eat with my hands tied behind my back. Or are you planning to spoon feed me like a child?” My words are biting and ungrateful, but he only raises an eyebrow and motions toward a blanket spread by the fire. I imagine he’s heard much worse. Said much worse.
“Cal, would you get our guest some stew?” he says, raising a brow in challenge.
I am nowhere near a guest and we both know it, but I remain silent. I can mouth off after I fill my stomach.
He helps me sit without falling over and then brings his face so close to mine I feel the heat of his breath. “Remember, I do not miss.”
And with that, he runs one of his knives through the ropes, setting my arms free. I almost hear the joints of my shoulders cry out in relief, finally able to stretch and the cool night air soothes the sting of my broken skin.
Calloway brings me some stew, placing the bowl carefully in my numb fingers. He shoots me a furtive look that seems a mixture of apology and warning, but I ignore it pointedly. I have no use for apologies when they will not rectify what’s been done.
“Eat and then we can tend to your wrists,” the Dark Worlder says, taking a seat across the fire.
I glance at him in surprise, but rather than contemplating why someone who’s abducted me would tend to my wounds, I dig into the stew feverishly. It burns my tongue, but I don’t slow until my belly stretches with fullness. I can’t even remember the last time I ate. Did I really decline the breakfast Farrah offered me?
The food clears the fuzzy edges around my thoughts, honing them into clear lines.
Calloway fills my bowl again without my asking and I devour that one, too.
I feel the Dark Worlder’s eyes on me as I finish the last few bites. “Thank you for the food,” I say softly, without looking at him. It’s more comfortable not to look at him.
“You dying of starvation doesn’t serve my best interests,” he replies.
Now, I do look, square and direct. “And what are those interests, exactly?” I ask, my mouth tight. It feels odd, to be in a place where my anger doesn’t make people uncomfortable—if anything, it seems to spur the man on.
“Don’t worry about it. I have need of you, and when I’m finished, you’ll be let go.”
I stare at him. “Let…let go?”
He rolls his eyes skyward. “It was a bit hard to get a word in edgewise with your spitting antics, but yes, I’ve always planned on letting you go.”
It can’t possibly be that easy, especially if he refuses to name what exactly his need of meis.Something he can’t get anyone else to do, obviously, or he wouldn’t have resorted to kidnapping. “Why would you do that?”
He cocks his head and I swear, his eyes sparkle. “Would you rather I didn’t?” The tone of his voice conveys something unspoken, something untamed, and I immediately shy away from it, despite the thrill that roils through me.
I don’t respond, just watch him from beneath my lashes. The way I would watch a dangerous animal. A leopard or a tiger. His body is no longer tense and coiled, or ready to pounce in that wild manner of his, but there is still something about the way he holds himself that leaves me feeling uneasy. He is too still. As if he has singular control over every muscle in his body.
He clears his throat. “It looks like you fractured your wrist.”
My eyebrows knit together as I look down at the aforementioned wrist. It does look unnaturally swollen, but I’ve never been interested in a Healer’s track and therefore have no real knowledge of what injuries look like.
I set down my stew and wrap the blanket tightly around me. My teeth have finally stopped chattering and I suddenly feel as if I could sleep for days. No matter that I will most likely be sleeping on a hard, dirt floor surrounded by violent heathens.
“I should splint it, so it heals properly,” the man says.
I eye him skeptically. He only waits, his face unreadable.
I hold out my hand. After digging in his pack for a few moments, he tosses a wad of thick fabric in my direction. A cloak.
He waits until I wrap it around myself before settling beside me. His body is warm and solid next to mine. The slight scent of woodsmoke and spice tinge the air, and I wonder abstractly whether it is him or the cloak.
He carefully places a few sticks at strategic points around my wrist and then begins to bind them together with thick cloth. He is careful, his skin never brushing mine and I wonder when I became so aware of thelackof someone’s touch rather than the touch itself.
I take the distraction of my wrist to watch him unabashedly. His dark brows are furrowed, and his lashes are a sweep of black across his caramel skin.
He makes quick work of the splint, tying it off with a neat knot. “Take it easy and it’ll be as good as new in a few weeks.” His eyes travel slowly to my throat. “That too. Though the swelling, at least, should go down in a few days.”
