Shoving aside the distracting rush of lust, she drew closer and examined the wound, running her fingers along the side of it. The defined muscles of his abdomen flexed under her touch, and his hand curled in the grass beside him.
“Does that hurt?”
His throat bobbed. “No.”
“Has it been cleaned?”
“Not thoroughly, no. I didn’t have time.”
She pulled her hand back and stood. “Where is your tent? It will get infected if you don’t take care of it.”
He stared at her, still on his knees. “You don’t need to do this.”
It was hard to look at him. He carried so much pain, even if she did not know what it was, and now, he was barely keeping a damper on it. The mask was falling.
“I do. You can’t train me if you’re dead from a blood infection.”
Finally, he relented, and with a sharp sigh, he stood, dragging her back towards camp. Thessa huffed behind them.
What?
Treat his wounds carefully.
I was planning on it, though it isn’t that bad.
The dragon paused.I think you know well enough now that not all his wounds are visible.
The dragon fell quiet after that. The camp was still sleepy, most of the soldiers in their tents as Vane pulled her through it. He stopped in front of a tent a little bigger than her and Cion’s, dropping her hand. She took a deep breath as he ducked inside before following him, but she froze in the entrance as he tossed his armor to the side. He didn’t fully remove his shirt, though, thank the gods. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him, but perhaps she wanted it too much.
He sat down on a small, roughly hewn wooden stool in the center of the tent. “There’s a basin of water and a bottle of clear liquor over there.”
He inclined his head to the left. Slowly, she walked to the materials. The bottle of liquor was half-gone, and she wondered if it had been used for previous wounds or if he’d drunk it. Somehow, she doubted he indulged much.
She wet a small cloth with water then pressed the head of the bottle to it, soaking it with some of the alcohol. When she approached Vane, he looked half-asleep again. But as soon as she said his name, he stiffened and opened his eyes before lifting his shirt again. She knelt in front of him and pressed the cloth to his skin.
He barely flinched as she cleaned the wound. Instead, his gaze was heavy on her as she gently skirted her fingers over his skin.
She didn’t look at him, instead focusing on cleaning as she asked, “Does it help?”
“Does what help?”
She pressed the cloth to the center of the wound. “Having me do this? You seem distracted at the very least.”
His abdomen tensed under her hands, and she peered up at him. He hadn’t looked away from her, but his features had clouded slightly. Silence stretched between them, and she lowered her gaze.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t assume. Besides, it’s an overstep on my part—” But the rest of the words fell away as he brushed her chin with his calloused fingertips.
“It does help.”
She swallowed. “Good, then. Any other injuries I can help with?”
One of her hands was still on his stomach, and she didn’t want to move it. He was so warm and solid—perhaps the first stable thing in her life in many years.
“No,” he said after a moment.
She shoved away her disappointment and stood, turning swiftly. But he caught her wrist before she could go far, tugging her back. She stumbled, pressing her palm to one of his broad thighs to keep from toppling the ground. They were both breathing heavily as she went still, meeting his gaze. There was a catch of silvery light in the dark depths of his eyes.
“I wish…” he began, voice uneven. But then he took a deep breath and shut his mouth.
