Chapter 16 Quinn
QUINN
My ears were no longer tuned for danger.
They were listening for breath. Mav lay motionless, one arm bent above his head, the other resting loose at his side.
His shirt had been removed; a clean white bandage bound his ribs, already spotted through with red.
Even in unconsciousness, he looked…present.
Grounded. As though the world would bend about him before he would bow to it.
I knelt back on my heels, worrying the skin beside my nails.
He had lost so much blood.
The others had done what they could. Thistle stitched the worst of it. Branrir boiled water. Vesper contributed a withering glare and several unhelpful predictions about when Mav would die. And I stayed at Mav’s side, useless, steady only by sheer force of will.
Please wake. Open your eyes.
My mind reached for a spell I had not used in years, something to lessen his pain—or at least his perception of it.
Although I knew my Twilight gift could not command the body in the same manner in which it could command the mind.
The magic did not answer. Perhaps it knew what I could not yet say: this was not a matter of power.
This was presence. And I could not lose his.
A sharp pop flared from the fire, startling me.
A low groan. The faintest shift of muscle. His brow creased; his jaw flexed. Lashes fluttered and lifted. Mav’s hazel eyes were unfocused but open.
“Hey, princess,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel and unmistakably his.
“I am not a—” My voice broke on the old protest, breathless and foolish. “Thank the Saints. You are awake.”
I leaned forward without thought, half-turned toward him before my gaze found the thick white wrap at his ribs. He was shirtless. Pale. Vulnerable in a way he seldom permitted.
“My apologies,” I said, quieter now, brittle at the edges. “We removed your shirt to treat the wound.”
His mouth tilted, weary yet amused. “You’re always trying to undress me.”
Huffing a laugh, I smiled, grateful for the levity. His teasing loosened the tight knot of worry that had sat heavy in my stomach since he was wounded. I rolled my eyes for his benefit.
“How is it that you nearly die and yet remain insufferable?” I quipped.
His eyes drifted closed; the smile stayed. I sat back, drawing my knees to my chest, and watched the rise and fall of his breath.
Mav was alive.
For the moment, that was enough. I had not realized how long I had been holding my breath until it left me—ragged and raw, a creature caged too long. My hands still shook. Not from anxiety alone, but from all the feelings I had locked behind my teeth. Relief can be just as violent as fear.
Thistle reappeared with a steaming tin cup in one hand and a small clay pot in the other. The paste within was a sickly green-gray and smelled as though despair had been simmered with sulfur.
She passed me the mug. “For him. Infection. And this—” she pried the lid free, “—goes on the wound.”
Mav caught sight and scent of the mixture with a grimace. “That smells like something you scraped off a bog witch’s boot.”
“It works,” Thistle said briskly, already at his side. “Try not to whine. It ruins the stoic-warrior aesthetic.”
Thistle set down both containers and lifted the bandage at Mav’s side. She dipped two fingers into the paste and smoothed it over the gash. He hissed, flinched, and gripped the edge of the bedroll.
“Seven hells,” he ground out. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“You’re being a baby,” Thistle replied, unmoved. “Quinn, talk to him. Distract him.”
“I—what?” I blinked, clinging to the tin cup as though it might instruct me.
“I do not know what to say.” This part of relationships has always eluded me—the soft part.
I could wield a spell, outlast a curse, and endure the geography of exile.
It had never felt safe to place gentle words where they were needed.
“Anything. A story. A compliment. An insult. Speak, before he starts composing his own epitaph,” Thistle urged.
I hesitated, heart fluttering high in my throat. “You are…a very good dancer.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. His head tipped toward me, curiosity peeking through the pain.
“How did you learn?” I asked.
“My mother.” His voice lowered. “She insisted. Said dancing made you a better warrior. Some theory about balance and muscle control.” Mav looked away, expression twisting as if the memory had soured.
“She must be proud,” I offered.
His laugh held no light. “She wrote once,” he said. “After I lost my standing. Said I’d made my bed and should be proud to lie in it. I never wrote back.” His jaw worked, as though chewing an old bitterness. “Pretty sure my name’s been scrubbed off the family ledgers.”
“I am sorry.” I had no balm sufficient for such a wound. “It is her loss.” Perhaps it was too intimate a statement to make, but I could not help but speak from the heart. “We are more than our scars, Mav. Those who cannot stand by you in the dark do not deserve a place at your side in the light.”
A small, sad smile bent his lips. And though he tried to blink it away, I caught the sheen of emotion in his eyes.
Unwilling to push him further, I offered a truth of my own. “I love dancing because it is the closest I shall ever come to flying.”
He turned and beheld me. Not as curiosity, relic, or cautionary tale, but as something singular and present. His hand shifted toward mine. Warm fingers brushed the back of my hand, then settled there, gentle as breath.
“Maybe we’ll get to fly again sometime.”
My throat tightened. I did not meet his eyes; the ache behind mine warned me not to. I could feel him watching—concerned now, as if he feared he had strayed too far. His fingers gave the smallest squeeze. I held on, only for a moment.
Thistle returned to the edge of the firelight, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hands smudged green with paste and crushed leaf. “All right,” she announced, brushing hair from her brow. “Clean and slathered with ointment. Time for the bandage.”
I nodded and moved to Mav’s side. He had braced himself half upright against a rolled blanket, firelight carving shadow and bronze across the lean planes of his torso. The wound was ugly—angry, rimmed with bruise—but the paste had done its work to halt the bleeding.
Thistle placed one end of the bandage in my hand and we worked in tandem—her guiding the linen, me passing and wrapping, snugging each round firm against his skin.
“Breathe in,” Thistle ordered, calm and inexorable.
Mav inhaled, and she drew the binding tight.
He groaned. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”
“Still talking,” she said with a grin. “You’ll live.” Thistle tidied the remnants and vanished back toward her supply bags.
We were alone again.
Only Mav and I, with the firelight holding all the words we had not said. His skin was too pale; sweat glistened at his temples. But his striking hazel eyes were clear and fixed on me as if I were a thing worth watching.
“You frightened me,” I confessed.
I was not meant to care so much. Not so soon. Not like this. But the sight of him falling—the sickening sound when he struck the ground—had dug a well of feeling so deep I feared I would never climb out.
His gaze did not waver. “I didn’t exactly plan on getting injured.”
“Of course not.” My voice tightened. “But, you must be more careful.”
His lips parted, but I interjected.
“I cannot—” The words slipped free before I could bar them. I bit my lip and caged the rest.
I cannot lose you.
A crease formed between his brows as he frowned, as though he had heard the words I swallowed.
An inscrutable expression spread over his features.
He slid his hand into mine and lifted it to his mouth.
My heart stumbled as he kissed my knuckles.
The press of his lips sent a dizzy heat spiraling through me.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said against my skin. “I promise the next time we’re attacked by bandits in the Saints-forsaken Elderhollow, I’ll do my best not to get stabbed,” he added with a smirk.
I pulled my hand from his. “You make light of it, but I meant it in earnest.”
“As did I.” His gaze captured mine, pinning me to the spot. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Quinn.” He caught my hand again, kissing it once more—as though to prove he could.
“Then keep it.”
Mav had risked his life to save mine when it would have been easier for him to let me perish.
My death would have freed him from the tether.
Still, he saved me. It came as no surprise.
Even after only six days of making his acquaintance, I knew he was the sort of man who would stand between peril and someone he cared for.
Did Mav care for me?
He was reckless, infuriating, and arrogant.
He also mattered to me more than I was prepared to allow.
Facing Mav across the narrow strip of ground between our bedrolls, I lay on my side. The fire had gentled to embers. Shadows stretched long and soft. Thistle slept, curled beneath her blanket. Vesper was a heap of fur beside Branrir’s boots, tail twitching with dreams.
Sleep eluded me.
Each time my eyes closed, the same unwelcome images flashed—the bandits, the blood, and Mav collapsing to the ground.
“You need rest,” he insisted.
I nestled my cheek against the blanket. “I am too anxious to sleep.”
A beat.
“I can help with that.”
My eyes narrowed. “Another ploy for seduction?”
He laughed—not the maddening one, but the low, rough, honest sound that warmed the tight places in my chest. “For once, that’s not what I meant.”
Firelight lay bronze across his features, bandage tight about his ribs, the hard line of his jaw gentled by fatigue.
I closed my eyes, determined to rest. Perhaps if I lay still, my heart would learn the trick and follow.
Perhaps I could persuade it to quiet, to forget how it stuttered when his gaze found mine—and clenched when I feared it never would again.
A few heartbeats passed.
Warm fingers brushed my hairline. I startled at the touch.
“Is this all right?” he asked, hesistant.
I opened my eyes. He watched me, brow furrowed, concern flickering in his expression.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He said nothing more, only resumed the motion—stroking my hair in steady, deliberate passes.
Callused fingertips traced a quiet rhythm.
A hum sounded, soft and low, summoned from deep in his chest. The melody was half-remembered, but familiar.
Notes wrapped around me in a soothing embrace.
I let it carry me. Let his touch draw my breath into slower measure. Tension slipped from limb and thought.
Perhaps this is what safety feels like.