“Get dressed. We won’t be alone much longer,” he says.
The moment the door latches shut behind him I pull my clothes under the quilt and dress as quickly as I can. The feeling is gone the moment I slip on my leathers. They are bone dry, still warm from sitting by the fire, as are my boots when I cinch them to my calves. The silk dress is bound for the next life, torn across the back, its bodice and skirt frayed at nearly every hem. Still, it’s better than nothing.
A large gash in the thin fabric exposes an angry wound below my breast. It's tender to the touch but not life threatening, barring infection.
I run my fingers through my hair, my braid had come undone in the river and I’d gone to sleep with it wet. I’m sure I look a mess. The curly nest of tangles can be unruly on the best of days. I suck in a pained breath when my hands find the knot where I struck my head. Also tender, also not life threatening. Probably.
The throbbing pain in my side is perhaps the only wound that feels much worse upon rising this morning. Standing in the center of the cabin, I lift the dress to examine the extent of the injury when the general barges through the front door. The only door. Other than a small shelf with a lone carving of a wolf, there is little more adorning the cabin than the trunk in the corner and a small bed built into the wall.
The general’s eyes flick to my bruising side before I can pull my dress down to cover it. His eyes narrow on the discoloration, and he points to the bed as he issues his demand, “Sit down.” I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he adds, “Please.”
I don’t argue. My body feels exactly how I’d imagine if someone told me they’d been tumbled over a mile of root and stone at the bottom of a swift river. I can hardly wait to get back to the palace and sink into the hottest, longest bath of my life.
He takes a knee before me, dropping his satchel to the floor and asks, “May I?”
He waits for me to give him a small nod before lifting the thin fabric of my dress, exposing my torso. He glares at the blooming bruise, and I flinch when his hand meets with the discolored skin, a little from the pain and a little from the unexpected contact.
“It could be fractured,” he says, “A healer will know more.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him.
“There is that word again,” he says with a sigh.
He produces a salve from his bag and coats his fingers with a thick dab of the pungent ointment before smoothing it over the mark until it melts into the skin. The moment the salve touches it the pain lessons considerably.
“What was it about your life in La’tari that made you feel you had to be so strong?” he asks without meeting my eyes.
“I don’t know,” I say, “What is it about your life here that keeps that look of eternal annoyance on your face?”
“I am not annoyed,” he argues.
I hum, disbelieving, as the male settles my dress around my waist, slicking his thumb with another dab of salve. This he spreads on the cut below my breast, and blood rushes to my cheeks when I’m reminded of the idle sweep of his thumb I felt upon waking.
“Perhaps what you perceive as annoyance is simply caution,” he says.
“I don’t know about that. You seemed pretty annoyed the night you drugged my tea.”
His brow furrows when I mention it, his eyes meeting mine briefly when he says, “Iamsorry about that. I didn’t know you then.”
“And you think you know me now?”
“I’m beginning to,” he says, slicking his thumb with fresh ointment and cupping my chin, running the salve across the long cut on my cheek.
“I do not take the lives of my friends lightly, and my trust in strangers is not easily earned,” he adds.
“And you trust me?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“No,” he admits, “but I am hopeful you’ll gain that trust.”
I can’t fault him for his honesty, yet his confession stings when it shouldn’t. He has every right not to trust me, every reason to guard those he loves.Especiallyfrom me.
“Do you make a habit of taking women you don’t trust to bed?” I quip, trying to keep myself from the dark spiral of my thoughts.
“I do not,” he says, capping the salve and dropping it into his satchel before grabbing my chin and pinning me with his gaze, “but if anyone could persuade me, it would be you.”
I suck in a breath when his eyes drop to my lips. What did he just say? There is no time to untangle the messy weave of questions, objections, and emotions before his eyes fall to the floor, and he tips a pointed ear toward the door.
“They are here.” He drops my chin and stands, offering me his hand unnecessarily.
