I nod and stand there awkwardly, unsure what to do. I’d expected him to be out of the bath and at least partially dressed.
“I can get out if that would be easier,” he says.
Again, I nod, and when he grips the edges of the tub to stand, I quickly turn around.
He grunts from pain, and I flinch with the instinct to help him. Going against the part of myself that knows better, I turn and go to him, wrapping his good arm around my shoulders. The other arm must be in misery from the blade wound piercing his shoulder.
The water running off him soaks through my shirt as he eases from the tub. Once he’s ready, he leans against the plain writing desk in the room as I grab the bath linen and set to drying him.
This might be the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. I know that as I gently squeeze water from his hair and begin patting the rest of his body dry. Not difficult in that I’m so close to his nakedness, but difficult in that seeing each wound brings me physical pain and even more anger than I felt before. It takes everything in me to choke back my rising rage.
“You landed us much better this time,” he says. “Less like dropping us from the sky. More like rolling us out of the air.”
My anger dismantles a bit, and I give him a small smile. I did do better. And I remained alert, as did everyone else. No smacking our heads on the earth so hard it knocked us unconscious or stole all the breath from our lungs. Maybe I’ll only improve.
I hurry with my drying, because though he would never say it, I can tell he’s having a hard time standing. In a matter of seconds, I’ve got him in bed, propped on pillows, tucked beneath a sheet to his waist.
There’s healing to be done, so I lay the wet towel aside and take a seat beside him on the bed. He lifts his right arm so I can nestle a little closer. It feels so right when he lays that arm across my thighs, his hand soft at my hip.
I lean over him to examine his wounds. There are so many cuts on his face, a bad knot on the side of his forehead, a field of blooming bruises across his chest and abdomen, and that destruction at his shoulder that runs straight through to his back.
“This is going to take some time,” he says. “You’re going to be quite tired, I imagine.”
It will, and I will, so the sooner I begin the better.
It doesn’t take long to weave the threads of the smaller cuts on his face, his lips. The knot and his damaged eye prove more difficult mendings, though.
As I work, imagining what I want the result to be, I realize that I’ve memorized every single curve and line on this man’s face. I know that his left eyebrow has a slightly sharper arch than the right, and that his irises have the prettiest flecks of silver and gold saturated right around the pupil. I know the full curve of his lips better than my own, and the smooth feel of the skin along his cheekbones. I know there’s a tiny scar under his chin where his beard doesn’t grow, and that when he’s confused or angry, two deep lines form between his brows. I know his dimple—nature’s little proof that tells me when he’s truly happy.
He’s so lovely, and I think I might miss him.
I weave the glittering red threads, frayed and multiplied, just as they were in Frostwater Wood. There are still three—his, Colden’s, and mine. Even if my end of the bond is severed, these are the lives he’s bound to.
For the first time since the rune was reversed, there isn’t a single part of me that hates that we were so intimately connected. As I weave and weave in my mind, running my fingertips lightly over his face, I realize that, even with the bond broken, perhaps we still are.
His torso is next, and the bruises are deep. Careful, I trace my hands over his body, mending the contusions, and even a broken rib. I can’t help but pay close attention to his runes. As many times as I’ve seen him naked, this is the first time I notice a particular marking on his chest, right over his heart, where he always kisses me. It’s partially covered by the dark smattering of hair across his chest. I look up at him, a question on my face.
He glances down. “I’m not sure. It’s been there as long as I can remember. It isn’t any rune I know. Probably a battle scar.”
Compelled and curious, I touch it, running my finger around its smooth edge. It looks like a brand.
His stomach muscles tense, and his nipples harden. “Back to work,” he says with mischief in his voice. “Before you make me want to do things I can’t.”
I bite back a grin and turn my attention to the sword wound at his shoulder, which offers plenty distraction from the rest of him. It takes the longest of all to heal, along with deep concentration and the tedious weaving of many damaged threads. I work steadily, through shattered bone, slashed muscles and tendons, destroyed veins. He’s lucky the sword missed an artery.
By the time the skin begins to restore to its usual smoothness and light gold shade, I feel like I could lie down on the floor and sleep for a week. Instead, I meet Alexus’s eyes, his gaze already locked on my face, and graze my fingertips across his healed brow.
Tenderly, he kisses my wrist and rubs his hand softly up and down my forearm. “You saved me. Again. Somehow, I feel like you’ve been saving me forever, in so many ways.”
His little death flutters against my ribs as his gaze roves over my face, making my breath come in uneven pants. I focus on his lips, wondering if he sensed the fear I felt for him today, realizing that he must have, because he hasn’t questioned my lack of venom in the least.
“Come here,” he whispers, and I lean in, just a little, surrounded by his heat and scent. He smiles, and there’s that dimple. “Closer.”
As though his words are laced with magickal conviction, I touch my mouth to his, and the rest of the world falls away.
His lips feel so very right, soft and luscious, tempted yet tempered, so supple in their yearning. I let him set the pace, a languorous tasting.
Yes. This kiss is a reminder. A welcome back. A promise made. A declaration. His kiss tastes like devotion. It tastes like sincerity and affection and adoration. It tastes like him, like us.
