At least he’d won. Right? He was pretty sure he remembered winning.
Rylla pounded furiously again on the door. “Delaynie!”
The door swung open. A light flipped on, haloing a scowling Delaynie, auburn hair piled atop her head.
“What in the name of the Goddess is going on—” Delaynie froze, her eyes widening with shock as they flitted between Rylla and Quentin, all traces of annoyance fading away.
Quentin briefly forgot his pain. His mouth lifted instinctively into a smirk, gaze drinking in Delaynie’s exposed moon-pale skin, the low scoop of her tank, skimming over the hem of her linen shorts.
“Hey, little wolf.”
Dumbfounded surprise dashed across her aristocratic features before the pain swallowed him again. His smirk fell, his face throbbing under the heavy bruise blooming across his cheek. Dizziness wrapped around him again and he swayed, eyes fluttering closed.
“I…shit. Rylla, let’s get him inside.” Someone warm and soft and sweet—what was that? Coconut? Vanilla?—slipped beneath his right arm, guiding him forward.
Delaynie’s chambers were cooler than the hall. A desert breeze brushed into the room, and a shiver raced down Quentin’s spine.
He hoped it was just a cool night. A fever would be bad. Right?
His thoughts were fuzzy. Why was he so tired?
Something soft yet solid brushed the backs of his calves. He was slowly lowered until he settled on plush cushions. A chair, his brain gave him. It was a chair.
“What happened?” Delaynie sounded breathless, concern tingeing her voice.
Was his little wolf worried about him? How sweet.
A small hand grabbed his chin, wrenching up his face. “Eyes open. No falling asleep. And I’m not your anything.”
Oh. Maybe he’d said that out loud.
With way,waytoo much effort, Quentin opened his eyes. The world was even brighter than before, but nothing was brighter than Delaynie’s blue eyes.
He blinked against the brilliance, head rolling to the side and out of Delaynie’s grasp. More of his surroundings greeted him—the large mirror, the clawfoot tub, the vanity and sink.
A bathroom.
Delaynie glanced to Rylla lingering in the doorway. “I need bandages; as many as you can carry. If you can find marigold, comfrey, and yarrow, I’ll need those, too.” She ran her sharp gaze over him again, lingering on the blood coating his abdomen.
Blood that was leaking from his back.
“Also, a needle and thread. And some alcohol—the stronger the better.”
Rylla gave a short nod and vanished, the door to Delaynie’s rooms shutting closed a few moments later.
Delaynie held Quentin’s stare for three long heartbeats. Quentin felt each one. Even with all the blood he’d lost, his skin was suddenly buzzing, awareness chasing away the haze.
A tinge of pink crept into Delaynie’s cheeks and she softly cleared her throat. “I have to clean the wounds,” she said. “So we know what we’re dealing with.”
He nodded, and—gods. Pain wracked through him. Every inch of him hurt, from his face down to his knees. With a grimace, he peeled his baldric from his bloodied skin, swayingslightly on the chair as he lifted it over his head and discarded it on the tile.
He was missing two knives. That sucked.
Water splashed into a basin. Quentin’s head shot up—he hissed in pain at the sudden movement—to Delaynie standing beside the claw foot tub, toying with the faucet.
She glanced over her shoulder, rolling her eyes at whatever she read on his face. “Don’t get excited,” she said. “It’s the fastest way to get rid of the blood and sand. And I don’t trust you not to pass out and drown if I leave you on your own.” She eyed him, that blush staining higher on her cheeks. “The pants are staying on, though.”
Oh, it was too easy.
