“You’re impossible,” she whispered, lighter than she meant it to sound.
Viktor’s mouth twitched.
And you’re worth it.
She found a square of gauze and pressed it to his thigh. He hissed through his teeth, jaw locking.
“Sorry,” she said quickly.
“You keep saying that,” he rasped, rough with pain. “I’m starting to think you like the sound of it.”
Her brows rose, but her lips threatened a smile.
“Do you ever take anything seriously? The cliff, now this—”
A grin tugged at Viktor’s mouth.
“If your father wasn’t trying so hard to kill me, I’d think he likes me.”
Amerei shook her head.
“That’s generous. He’s still deciding whether to bury you at sea or in backcountry soil.”
She reached for a needle, grimacing at the sight.
His grin deepened.
“Then tell him to save the trouble. I’d prefer a funeral pyre.”
She watched him sidelong, that private, dangerous smile pulling at the corner of her lips. Then she placed a clay jar in his palm. “Dulling salve.”
As she threaded the needle, her fingers slowed. The point caught the light, trembling.
Viktor noticed, a quiet laugh breaking low in his throat.
“Give it here. I can do it.”
“You?”
“I’ve stitched worse.”
He held out his hand.
She passed him the needle with visible relief.
“I hate the sight of blood,” she admitted softly. “Always have.”
“Good thing one of us doesn’t mind,” he said, bending to his work.
Her gaze lingered on him longer than it should have—on the steadiness of his hands, the sweep of his lashes as he focused. A sigh slipped from her, carrying memory and want both—the forest, the dragon, the way he had stood between her and death without hesitation.
He looked up at the sound, misreading it.
“I’ll never forgive myself for turning my blade on you.”
“It was terrifying.”
“It will never happen again.”
