"Is it a brothel?" I asked. “A dingy bar?”
The corner of his mouth curled up. "Worse." Turning his head, he stared down the road.
A group of caravans blocked the road ahead, funneling out of the narrow gate, heading west. Colorful images painted their sides, and people dressed like foppish nightmares congregated around them.
Oh, joy. It was a traveling theatre group. And I, the lead jester, would make my prestigious appearance on their stage.
I could already imagine Bláth's face—and Reese's, for that matter.
They were going to be so amused.
Chapter 32
Mare
Iwoke from the darkness, unsure if I still lived. Memories resurfaced from beneath the depths of a sea drowning my mind.
The scáde. The Solhearts. Reese.
I sat bolt upright, panic thrumming like a drum through my bones. Pain lashed through my side, answering my first waking question.
Oh, I was definitely still alive.
Gasping, I pressed a hand to my side and flinched as tender pangs answered.
A warm hand touched my shoulder and pushed me back. "Easy, there."
I blinked away the fog blanketing my eyes and focused on the man sitting at my bedside. The color red manifested first, seated atop a . . . blob. With every steadying breath, I noticed more details.
Bronzed skin, etched in several places by scar tissue. Black ink painted across a chest—depicting a sun raining heavenly light, carrying the feathers of fallen birds.
I blinked a few more times, studying the taut wall of muscles before me. The . . . the naked muscles before me.
In fact, it seemed they were attached to an entire shirtless Paragon.
Was I naked, too? I looked down and saw only thick bandages wrapping my torso. A blanket covered my lower half, but it didn't feel especially warm.
Panic set in again, but I shooed it away. I was Lady Rohan. The sight of bare-chested men did not faze me. And I did not struggle to make eye contact.
Dragging my head up, I met Reese's eyes—those golden eyes, like molten gold.
Oh, saints. I'd forgotten I couldn't meet those eyes.
The pecs would do. I focused on them, instead.
"You woke earlier than I expected," Reese said. "Good. How do you feel?"
"Considerably better, now that I know I'm not dead.” I glanced at his arm. He was wrapping a bandage around his bicep, where the javelin had struck him. My vision blurred, and I looked back at his chest.
Those pecs were grounding me. I stared out of medical necessity.
"A bit woozy," I added.
"I'd imagine. I dumped several concoctions down your throat." His brow turned down in worry. "It's like your body wouldn't accept the healing. I had to stitch you up the old-fashioned way."
My head was too foggy to consider the implications of his words. His healing magic had hurt me.
A problem for when I could think without my body groaning in protest.
