Quentin took the bottle, fingers grazing hers. He swallowed his chuckle as she jumped back from him, tilting back his head and taking a deep swig.
He nearly choked, the liquor burning as it tore down his throat. It hit his bloodstream instantly, the edge of the world softening. The pain in his back dulled; not enough to forget, but enough to take his first full breath.
Delaynie snatched back the bottle. There was the unmistakable sound of drinking—and a quiet gag.
“Nervous, Del?”
She growled—actuallygrowledat him. “No. It’s just been a while since I’ve had to stitch a wound.”
“I’ve never heard the story of how a palace lady received healer training.” He knew she had some knowledge about how to mend wounds. It was why he’d asked Rylla to take him here in the first place.
Well, one of the reasons.
“It’s not much of a story,” she said. Her fingers were back on his skin, a better distraction than the booze could ever be. “I liked to learn. I wanted to know a little about all things. So, I spent a few years in my teens shadowing the Verithian healer’s guild, learning the basics.”
“And stitches were part of the basics?”
She huffed a soft laugh. Gods, he had to fight back a jolt every time her breath ghosted across his skin. “Part of them, yes.”
Her fingers left him again. There was rustling, along with the clink of glass. Quentin twisted his head, peering over his shoulder.
Delaynie was staring at his back, regal brow scrunched, as if working through a problem. She held the bottle of liquor in one hand and a clean scrap of linen in the other. Her icy-blue eyes darted to his, bright pink flushing across her cheeks.
“I have to clean the wounds,” she said quietly, adjusting her grip on the bottle. “It’s going to hurt.”
Quentin’s lips tugged at the corners, holding her stare. “Do your worst, little wolf.”
Her eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Quentin turned back around, staring at the wall.
A hiss slipped past his throat as the liquor met his skin. Itburned. Like hot flames being poured across his back, dousing him in fire. He hung his head, clenching the chair. His muscles tensed under his skin, pulling at the wounds in his back.
Gods, this was fucking terrible.
Soft linen dabbed at his burning skin. “Are you all right?” Delaynie asked, barely more than a murmur.
Quentin gritted his teeth. “Never better. But I’d love it if we didn’t make this last longer than it has to.”
“Right. Sorry.” The linen left his skin. There was more rummaging, then a pungent odor filled the air. He nearly jumped when she touched him again, spreading the poultice around the edges of his wounds.
“I think only two will need to be stitched,” she said after a moment. “The others have already started to heal.”
Quentin nodded. “Good news, I suppose.” He wasn’t surprised. His wounds had always healed quickly.
Delaynie prepared the needle and healing thread, working as quiet as a wolf in the woods. Always proving how much his nickname for her fit; she just had yet to see it.
“Tell me more about this coup.”
Quentin shivered as she settled in close, hands resting on his skin.
“I’m not sure it’s a full coup—not yet at least. They didn’t say much but mentioned—” His words died in a hiss of pain as the needle pierced his skin, tugging through his flayed wound and out the other side.
His vision blurred. He wanted more liquor.
“But mentioned what?” Delaynie urged calmly, even as she tugged the healing twine through his skin, pulling it taut and knitting his skin together before knotting it off. The needle bit into his skin again, and Quentin loosened a heavy exhale.
“They mentioned one of the other Elders. Natia, I think. She’s who confronted Mariah, right?”
“Yes.” Delaynie paused. “She did not take well to our queen.”
