Chapter 4 - Kalla
Kalla
IV
I dabbed the sweat off the fae’s forehead and took another look at the gaping wound in his side.
Not long before sunrise, I’d been certain I would watch him take his last breath, not having been able to staunch the bleeding from what had to be multiple pierced organs.
His lungs had grated with each intake of air, and his heartbeat had been erratic, going from too quick as his heart attempted to pump more blood to replace what he’d lost to too slow as his body began to shut down.
The closer he’d edged towards death, the more I found myself caught between hope and dread. If his wounds killed him, he wouldn’t be my problem anymore. I wouldn’t have broken the rules—at least not that anyone would need to know about. But he would be dead.
I didn’t understand why it mattered, but every time I imagined those beautiful eyes never opening again, the more something in my chest fought harder to keep him breathing.
Now, as we approached sunset, I was more confident he’d live.
The salves I had on hand, made from local herbs and vampire blood, had worked a miracle.
Helped, I suspected, by the fae’s own healing capabilities.
Some of the smaller wounds had already closed, leaving no trace of the damage he’d taken.
The only one still concerning me was where he’d been skewered.
I was grateful Thorn and Cliff already expected me to be away for a few days. This fae would need at least that long to recover, and I would need potentially longer to get the information I wanted from him. Once I did… Well, then I could decide what to do with him.
Guilt squeezed my insides at the thought of my fury leader and best friend. They believed I’d come here to shake off my restlessness and would expect me to return home ready to embrace my duty. Instead, I was using my time to hide my crimes from them, ignoring duty altogether.
My stomach roiled with the pain of betraying them, but I reminded myself that my rebellion was temporary. And that they didn’t need to know.
I then rebandaged my patient and set about rinsing the bloodstained rags. My eyelids sagged with exhaustion, but I wasn’t ready to sleep. Not until I was sure I wouldn’t wake up to find a dead fae in my bed.
He held all my attention, even as I ordered myself to stay detached.
I hadn’t saved him out of mercy; I was a cold, ruthless scout.
My purpose was to gain information to benefit my community.
As soon as he shared everything he knew, I would drain him and bury his body.
Staying detached was practical. If I happened to learn something about the world beyond my mountains, that was a lucky bonus.
But the more I fought to limit my contact, the more I found myself touching him, brushing his hair out of his eyes, smoothing his blankets, fluffing his pillow.
I’d worked carefully to undress him once I’d gotten him into bed, not wanting to cause any extra damage, and while moving him, I’d done my best to keep my gaze averted, but all I wanted to do was stare.
Everything about him—from the points of his ears to the warmth of his skin—was so novel that I couldn’t stay away.
If I’d thought he was stunning at first glance, it was nothing to seeing him under the soft candlelight.
His body was perfection, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, defined muscles, and solid limbs.
He obviously trained his body to fight, if my assumptions about the battle in the woods was correct.
We’d been taught that the fae were dangerous.
Born beautiful to lure in their victims, just as vampires were, but where we attacked with brutal efficiency, pumping our victims full of venom to turn their pain to pleasure, fae worked in promises, making bargains, lulling the unwary into a false sense of security.
When he woke, I would need to be on my guard to maintain the upper hand.
Nothing about this fae was worth bargaining for.
I watched him sleep, followed the rise and fall of his breaths, as shallow and shuddering as they were.
His long eyelashes fluttered, but he never made it as far as waking up.
The candlelight flickered across his hair, adding streaks of gold to the white-blond, and I fought the temptation to run my fingers through it.
I already knew how soft it was, having touched it when I’d removed his hood and washed out the blood.
Just like I knew the feel of his skin, the flex of muscle beneath it, and the ridges of the numerous scars that lined his body.
I took in the older scars—the obvious battle wounds and the strange markings along his collar bones.
Those had caught my attention when I’d stripped off his torn, bloodied shirt, and I kept returning to them.
They looked like symbols sliced into his flesh with a fine blade, each one no bigger than the pad of my thumb.
I counted seven across his chest, each one so precise that he must have held deathly still for each stroke.
Why would he have endured such pain? Had he done them himself?
A tally of the lives he’d taken? Somehow I doubted it.
The angles were too awkward to have been self-inflicted.
“Who are you?” I wondered aloud. “A soldier? An assassin?”
But it would be strange for an assassin to be afraid of the dark, which he obviously was.
The way he’d reacted when he’d woken for those brief moments in the pitch blackness, in such a panic that I hadn’t been able to calm him, left little doubt.
I could still hear the echo of his racing heart, feel the brush of his fingers as he’d scrabbled for an unseen anchor.
I hadn’t allowed the candles to go out since, not wanting to add to his fear.
I had no idea why I was going through so much trouble. My life would be simpler if he didn’t pull through.
My stomach grumbled, and my gaze dropped to his neck.
At the flutter of his pulse, my mouth watered.
All day I’d sat next to him, breathing his scent.
I’d washed the blood from him, suffered the torment of each rinse of the rag, and not once had my control slipped.
But as fatigue and hunger gripped me, my restraint weakened.
The desire to taste him was stronger than any past craving.
One taste, I told myself. A useful move too, as my bite would create the temporary bond that would prevent him from harming me.
He’d be inclined to do whatever I asked of him, even if it meant spilling his secrets.
Yearning nearly had me out of my chair, but I curled my fingers around the wood to keep me in place.
For the same reason I hadn’t given in while washing him or while sitting near him, I had to hold back.
He smelled so tantalizing that one taste would never be enough, and if I wanted him to wake up and answer my questions, he needed what little blood he had left.
To remove myself from temptation, I pushed to my feet. What I needed was a quick jaunt outside to catch something for breakfast, and then my control would slide back in place.
“Don’t worry, my beautiful secret, I won’t be long. When I’m back, maybe you’ll open your eyes and tell me your story.”
Not that I could trust him to tell me the truth. He’d probably try to trick me instead. But maybe, beneath the clever wordplay, he could explain to me why, for all my detachment, I couldn’t bear the thought of his life slipping away.