Flinging back the fur, I get to my feet, cautious as I move to the washstand. I still could not move with complete ease, the sharp twinge in my side greeting every too-deep breath and every too-quick or strenuous action. As I told Tage, I don’t think the rib was broken, but it would be some time before it felt normal.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I gingerly ease my tunic over my head and pour water into the basin. Availing myself of the cloth and soap, I hastily clean up as well as I can. With another glance over my shoulder, I strip off my remaining clothing and wash my body thoroughly. It’s been days since my dip into the pool, and after sleeping several nights on the floor, I crave to feel clean again.
I dart several looks toward the door, fearful that he should return and catch me in a state of undress. Never mind that I’ve been naked in his presence before. It isn’t lost on me that this is a wholly new phenomenon—thefearof being seen.
Satisfied I’m as clean as I can be for the moment, I bite my lip and consider his trunk where he keeps his clothes.
Deciding that I can’t feel completely clean wearing the same garments, I tell myself he won’t object if I borrow something of his. Rummaging through his trunk, I pull out a fresh tunic that hangs well past my knees. It smells of him. I try not to inhale it. That would be strange, and I’m trying to behave as normally as possible in anotnormal situation.
Tucking my soiled clothes on top of the trunk, I slide back beneath the fur again, glad for the warmth. Tomorrow I’ll wash them.
I don’t wait much longer before he returns with everything. He sits the tray down, and I sit up at his bidding. His gaze skims me, and I notice him noticing that I’m wearing his tunic. The collar is much too wide on me, and I adjust it, trying to square it evenly on my frame. He says nothing, though, merely sets a jar of salve beside me. When he takes my arm, I startle at the contact.
“I know it hurts.” A shadow of something passes over his face. Regret maybe. “This will help.” He starts to apply the salve to my raw wrists, his fingertips gently massaging the sensitive area.
My breath catches and falls a little faster and I let him think it’s my physical discomfort and not him. Not his nearness. Not his voice. Not his touch. Not his ridiculous body that no man should possess—and no man does.
No man because he’s not human.
This reminder is beginning to have less and less impact on me. Out here, in these mountains, in this wild place full of wild and brutal things, it matters a little less each day.
He finishes one wrist and then the next, his expression absorbed as he carefully wraps each one in a long strip of linen. “Go on. Eat.” He pushes a bowl of stew at me.
I pick up my spoon. “You, too,” I prompt.
He watches me for a moment, studying my face until I take my first mouthful.
Seemingly satisfied, he follows suit, tearing a hunk of bread from the large crusty loaf. “Your eyes. Is that a common trait among humans?”
The question catches me off guard.
I consider what he’s saying for a moment. “My eyes?”
“Yes. They’re mismatched. Each a different color. One a dark blue and the other like frost.” He doesn’t remark on the anomaly cruelly or spitefully. His tone is all idle curiosity.
“Oh.” I study him for a hint of judgment or aversion. He’s dipping his bread into his stew and not looking at me. “It is unusual,” Iadmit. “We...humans...usually have eyes that match. My father said his mother had eyes like mine. Two different colors.” I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “At least that’s what he remembered of her. He lost her when he was quite young. The memories are fuzzy, I’m sure.”
“Mismatched,” he murmurs, studying me again, his gaze flicking back and forth between my eyes. “Kind of like us. Mismatched.”
Human. Dragon. I wince at this reminder of our differences.
He makes a noncommittal sound, and I wonder what he’s thinking. “I’ve never seen mismatched eyes among our kind either.”
So I’m odd everywhere.
I study him under my lashes, captivated by the flash of his gleaming teeth as he bites into the bread.
“I like them,” he adds, and my breath catches. No one has ever complimented me on my eyes before. “They suit you.”
“Thank you?” I say it like a question, as though I am not convinced he means it as a compliment, though there is no other interpretation.
He finishes the bread and reaches for more.
“Did you eat? While you were out there?” I ask.
“We managed.”
Watching him steadily devour a second loaf of bread, I don’t imagine he ate his usual quantity while he was gone.
