Chapter 43 #2
This wasn’t how I’d intended things to happen. But as I stood there, the pain in my shoulder seemed to become aware of itself.
I stepped over to him. “Are you the court’s healer as well?”
“All Sylvanwild fae are trained in basic medicine.” He picked out a vial and a set of tweezers. “It’s part of our childhood as much as fletching an arrow.” He turned toward me and nodded to the chair. “Sit. Show me the wound.”
I sat and began untying my jerkin with my good hand. He waited, though his fingers twitched at his side. But he didn’t move until I’d pressed my jerkin and torn undershirt off my left shoulder. I gritted as they slid over the wound.
He stepped up to me and handed me the vial. “Drink.”
I took it, but didn’t open the stopper. Inside, the liquid was thin and clear. “What is it?”
“It’ll dull the pain.”
“I don’t need—”
His finger came under my chin, lifting my face. His eyes were serious but soft. “You don’t need to pretend at strength with me. Not here.”
My chest filled with warmth. I hadn’t known how badly I wanted to hear that from him.
I nodded against his finger. He turned back to the vanity, and I unstoppered the vial and drank it in one go. The liquid was bitter and burned until the heat of it hit my belly and spread through me.
He accepted the empty vial from me and set it aside on the table. He flicked out a piece of mosscloth on the vanity beside him. “It works quick.” He circled behind me, brushing close, and his hand touched my waist. “Lift your arms.”
I did so, ignoring my shoulder’s protest. His hands swept up from my hips, gliding along my ribs as he pulled off my leathers. Free of them, I could breathe more fully. Like I could finally exit the second trial, the dungeon, that place of darkness.
Dorian tossed them into a corner. I stood only in my linen undershirt, my leather breeches, and boots.
He pulled out a stool and drew it up to me. He sat in front of me, so close I felt the heat of him like a second sun. He seemed to hesitate.
I met his eyes. “Do what you need to do.”
Something passed over his face—pain, maybe?—then the expression was gone. He lifted the tweezers and began unpacking the wound.
It hurt. Every fucking tweeze hurt.
I watched him as he worked, wanting to touch his severe face, wanting to smooth the hollows under his eyes with my thumb. But he was fully fixated.
He pulled a piece of the herb from my shoulder and set it aside on the mosscloth. It was almost black with my blood. “Faun did this?” he asked of the puncture.
Faun the servant. Faun the dervish. “She’s wasted scrubbing floors.”
He shook his head. “She was a noble until her father was disgraced, but she was never a noble girl. I expect she’d have been our queen if not for—”
My gaze sharpened on him. “If not for what?”
He shook his head. “It’s not my story to share.”
Frustration pricked at me. I knew I couldn’t prod him into revealing a truth he’d already locked away. Instead, I said, “But she’s not like Rhiannon.”
He met my eyes and nodded once. Shared understanding passed between us. “No, she’s not.”
“When am I to see your queen?”
“Soon.” He breathed out through his nose. “She’ll bring you before her throne. Don’t pretend with her, either; she figured out long ago you were no rabbit.”
“Just be myself, then?”
His eyes met mine briefly and crinkled. “You’re not very good at being anything else.”
“And she allowed me to see you now. Why?”
He pulled out another piece of herb, and I flinched. “She doesn’t do anything without purpose.”
I waited for him to tell me what that purpose was. When he didn’t, I made a guess. “She wanted you to confirm I’m a changeling. She wanted you to tell me the history.”
He kept working. “Yes, but ask me why she wants those things.”
“Why?”
His gaze flicked up to me, eyes narrowing. “The spirit of the court is bound most closely to the queen. It whispers each trial into her ear before the trial itself.”
He was telling me something without saying it outright.
Rhiannon knew the next trial. She knew it and had sent me back to Dorian, knowing he would unravel certain truths for me.
But I still didn’t know her trick.
I winced as he pushed deeper into the wound.
He leaned back, swiped another vial off the table. “Drink more.” When I didn’t take it, he said, “Jerking away from my tweezers is a quick way to make this take a lot longer.”
Fair. I took the vial, upturned it, and drank.
After that, he worked in careful silence.
The drink halfway numbed the pain, but it also gave the world an inebriated tinge.
Eventually I watched him with lidded eyes.
His hands were large and warm on my skin, but he was so gentle, so precise.
His dark eyes were fringed with long lashes, his lips curving even when they pressed together.
Nothing like the shadow of that first night. Nothing like the man I’d found strange and ugly atop that wagon. He’d grown on me, vine to trellis, until all his parts felt perfect and inextricable from each other.
Why had I held myself back? Why had he?
I averted my eyes, but the scent of him was already in my lungs and in my blood.
When he’d cleansed the wound, he applied an ointment that sent a wave of coolness through the muscle. He leaned back, setting aside his tools. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. He made to stand. “You should bathe before I dress the wound.”
I caught his hand. My eyes met his.
This time, I wouldn’t let him walk away.
Above me, I heard his breath hitch. “I don’t want to hurt you, Eury.” His voice was low, almost mournful.
I stared up at him. I could see the desire in his eyes, how his gaze had traveled over me. Even now, standing above me, I saw his conflict.
But I wanted him. Craved him like we craved fresh water in the Dip.
I tightened my grip on his hand, led it to the strings of my shirt, until his palm fell over my collarbone. He watched, a muscle in his jaw feathering.
“I can take pain, Dorian.”