Before she’d had time to think about it or stop herself, she reached out and laid her hand onto the mass of purple and green, wishing she could soothe the half-healed cuts and abrasions.
Tor flinched as her cold hand touched his warm skin, and she moved to pull her hand back, but he caught it with one of his own, holding it against his belly as if they were the only two people in the world. Just him and her. Her hand pressed against his skin, feeling the hard ridges of muscles flexing as he shifted.
“I’m sorry.” Her words came out as a whisper.
He shook his head. “I’m not.”
Bard. She stared at him, completely disoriented. Wanting to push herself closer. Wanting to get away. When last had she felt like this? So flustered—so mesmerized—by a man. She blinked. Not a man. A soldier.
Mathos reached them, and she tugged at her hand, needing distance. Tor released her and turned to his friend just as Nim and Tristan arrived. “It’s not a big deal,” he said quietly as he picked up his mending.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Or Rafe?” Tristan demanded.
“Or me?” Mathos added.
Tor shrugged, still stitching his shirt. “Wasn’t all that important. Not with everything else going on.”
Tristan frowned. “Make sure you ask Rafe to take a look.”
Tor nodded his agreement. Thank the Bard. In the many hours they’d spent together, he had never once mentioned that he’d been hurt. He must have been bleeding and in agony when he hauled her through the icy waters of the moat, yet he hadn’t hesitated or complained. The thought of him hurting in silence bothered her. Bothered her in ways she didn’t want to think about.
Tor tied off the last stitch and then slipped out of his jerkin to pull the newly mended shirt on before putting his jerkin back over the top and tying the laces. Then he reached into a satchel beside him, picked up a small linen bundle, and passed it to her.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “What’s this?”
“Spare shirt.”
Mathos chuckled. “Forgive him, Keely. It’s his special talent—saying something completely true and yet utterly unhelpful. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose so that he doesn’t have to say what he really thinks.”
Tor narrowed his eyes at Mathos but softened when he looked back her way. “For your friend. She’ll need something to wear when she gets here.”
Bard. After days of ignoring his own needs to take care of hers, now he was taking care of Alanna too. She cleared her throat again. “Thank you. That’s really…. Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, simply sat beside her, his leg warm and solid where it pressed against hers as her nerves slowly ratcheted back up and her eyes began to dart toward the path once more.
He was still sitting quietly beside her when Jeremiel jogged into the camp with Reece. “They’re coming. Jos flew ahead to warn us, we need to go. Right now.”
Keely stood so quickly, she would have stumbled if a heavy hand hadn’t reached up to hold her hip and stabilize her. Tor rose slowly beside her, a comforting warmth at her shoulder as she focused on Jeremiel.
“What about Alanna? Did they…?” Keely paused as the words stuck in her throat.
Jeremiel gave her a quick nod. “She’s alive but unconscious. Val’s carrying her.”
Keely wiped a shaky hand down her face, wishing she could collapse back onto the log, just for a moment. But Tristan was already barking orders to move out and she was up on her borrowed horse and cantering down the path before she could fully process that Alanna would be okay.
Within minutes there was a sharp whistle, and they reined the horses in, guiding the big stallions to a safe stop as Val landed heavily on the path ahead of them. Alanna was gripped tightly against his chest, Jos and Garet following close behind.
They were smeared with dust and dirt and blood, their faces drawn, and sweat dripping down their necks, but their eyes were clear and relieved. Jos was even smiling.
Alanna was safe in Val’s arms. His grip on her friend never wavered despite the grayish pallor of his face and his painfully stiff movements. Val looked as if he’d spent the day walking through the fires of the Abyss, as if all his wounds had reopened and each step was agony, but he also looked as if his world had righted. As if he could finally breathe.
Val leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Alanna’s forehead, and it was all Keely could do to keep herself from crumpling into a heap and weeping. She had been so afraid, still was afraid—not for herself, but for Alanna.
Bard. Her friendship with Alanna had snuck in under her defenses, and for the first time in years, she was vulnerable to loss.
She swallowed hard, watching Val as he held Alanna. He settled himself into his saddle then carefully arranged Alanna to keep her comfortable and secure as they escaped, using his wings to balance them both so that he never had to let Alanna go.
Val loved Alanna. It was there in everything he did.
