“You know what,” Baze gripes before dragging a sniff from the bottle’s neck. His face screws up, and he makes a vexing sound that almost makes me smile. “What thehellhave you mixed in here? It never used to smell like this.”
I swipe damp hair from my face and tick off my fingers as I speak. “Gingerwelt, lispin, rileweed, and dogwarth—that’s what makes it smell like sulfur.”
His head kicks back, eyes widening. “Doesn’t dogwarth grow on horse shit?”
Unfortunately.
“It helps ease the m-migraines,” I say through chattering teeth, bunching my pillow so I can nuzzle into it just the way I like.
“Wish I hadn’t asked,” he mutters, pulling the thick quilt up around my shoulders. “I thought you were moving past the nightmares? You haven’t had an episode like this in months.”
I shake my head.
I’ve just learned to cram my body full of things that sedate me enough to mask the pain; mixing everything under the sun with caspun to enhance its effect, then drawing deep glugs of the bottle pre-sleep rather than the recommended sip when I wake already ruined.
Not that I’m going to tellhimthat.
Caspun’s not intended to be used as a preventative, but daily hangover aside, it works.
Baze stoppers the bottle and stabs it back into its spot, hand still pinching the top. Heavy seconds pass filled with only the sound of my chattering teeth, my sweaty nightgown now a burden to my plummeting core temperature.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Nope.”
There’s not a single part of me that wants to tell him my stores are almost depleted. Or that I’m queasy about the inevitable conversation with Rhordyn—one where I’ll tell him I need more caspun imported, and he’ll say he gave me a three-year supply four months ago, and then things will get awkward.
Baze clears his throat, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Okay, well ... now that I know you’re notdying, I should lea—”
My hand lashes out, snatching his arm, making his well-defined brow arch as he peers down at my unyielding grip.
“Stay,” I plead, and his dumbfounded gaze lifts to my face.
“Laith ...”
“I’m not too proud to beg.” I make my eyes go all big, playing on the fact that he probably still sees me as a child, not a woman who shouldn’t need someone to scare away the monsters that circle when she sleeps. “Please.”
He looks to the bed like it’s going to swallow him alive.
Resolve seems to settle on his face, and with a heavy sigh, he strides toward the open-mouthed fireplace, black sleep pants hanging off his hips as he crouches before the hearth like a panther.
Baze is liquid when he moves, even when he’s blowing life into dormant embers. He just looks so comfortable in his skin ...
I wish I knew how that felt.
The fire roars to life, and he stacks it with wood, then makes his way around the other side of the bed. Climbing in next to me, he stuffs a few pillows behind his back and leans against the headboard, pulling a silver flask from his pocket.
“What’s in there?”
“Whiskey. Home brewed.” He unscrews the lid. “Tastes like horse piss.”
Can’t be worse than the shit I just ingested.
“Can I t-try some?”
He lifts a brow, studies me for a long moment, then shoves the flask in my direction. “Only a sip, and only because it’ll warm you up.”
I peel up and take the offering. “So many caveats. You think I’m going to take a liking to it and start distilling my own?”
