Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
True to his word, Zevayr doesn’t stop until it’s so dark, visibility becomes an issue. After I trip over a snaking root for the third time, he looses a deep sigh and starts preparing a makeshift camp.
From his satchel, he retrieves a thick blanket and lays it over the snow. The blanket has barely settled when I plop down, eager to rest my aching legs. He offers me dried meat and a small pouch of nuts, and I tear into the tough, salty strip before swallowing it down like it’s roasted seal meat.
“Do you think we were followed?” I ask between bites, eyeing him warily as he sits across from me to eat his own portion.
“Maybe.” We switched directions often, but footprints in the snow are difficult to conceal. “We’ll cover more ground tomorrow.”
I nod absently, huddling into myself. Now that my body is still, the cold permeates my idle bones. I rub my palms together, blowing hot air over my frigid fingertips.
Zevayr’s eyes snag on my wrists again. The bruises have darkened in the past few hours—angry, thick purple bracelets, stark against my pale skin. His lips press into a grim line.
“Can you heal those?” he asks quietly, nodding toward my wrists.
I’m tempted to lie. I rather like the flicker of guilt that crosses his face each time his gaze lands on the raw skin.
But they do sting. And I’ve never had much patience for pain. One of the perks of being a healer, I suppose. Even the tiniest of aches are healed away.
And now that there’s food in my belly, I’m strong enough to heal the abrasions without worrying about draining my reserves.
In a blink, my hands glow white, and I press my fingers first to one wrist, then the other. Heat hums beneath my skin, and the bruises vanish like smoke.
When I look up, Zevayr is watching me, wide-eyed. Or, at least, one eye is wide—the other’s still an angry, swollen mess.
I sigh. I know I’ll regret this.
“I’ll heal you.” Deep breath. “In exchange for a truce. As long as you promise not to break it within seconds.”
A muscle pulses in his jaw. He studies me like I might bite.
Then—slowly—he nods.
I shift closer, kneeling before him, power already pooling in my palms. For a beat, I hesitate—I don’t want to touch him. But his injuries look painful, and my healer’s training supersedes any hatred I harbor for him.
Gently, I press my hands to the bare skin of his neck, trying my best to ignore the faint scratch of his stubble against my palms.
“Not trying to strangle me, are you?” he mutters.
I ignore him, focusing instead on sensing his injuries. Despite the poor state of his face, he’s relatively unharmed—except for a contusion on his thigh, so large I’m shocked he can walk without limping.
First, I heal his swollen eye, then the other cuts and bruises marring his face. I even heal his swollen nose from where I headbutted him. Within minutes, his face returns to its normal, handsome state.
He is handsome. Objectively. Irritatingly.
Doesn’t mean I hate him any less.
With his face healed, I’m left with a dilemma.
To heal his leg, I need contact with his skin. Which means asking him to take off his pants. I really do not want to do that.
Or I could keep touching his neck and channel my power through his entire body until I reach his leg. Messy. Draining. But possible.
I bite my lip. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering a second too long.
That decides it.
I return my palms to his neck.
Power hums from my hands, flowing through his muscles, bones, tissue. Every battered, aching inch of him.
He better remember this next time he thinks about tying me up.
When my power hits his leg, I focus—soothing the inflammation, mending the damage. When I draw back, a quiet gasp escapes me. My limbs are heavy, my head light.
Zevayr studies me with narrowed eyes. “That drained you.”
Not a question.
He’s right. My reserves are low, and between the battle, travel, hunger, and now this, I’m running on fumes.
“Thank you,” he adds quietly.
I blink. Did he just—?
“Eat another piece of jerky. Then, sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
I’m already lying down on the far side of the blanket before he finishes the sentence.
It feels like I’ve just closed my eyes when he’s shaking me awake.
“Mayah,” he whispers. I ignore him. “Mayah.” Louder. “You’re shivering. Come sleep beside me.”
That gets my attention.
My eyes snap open, and I glare into the darkness.
“Absolutely … not.”
“Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not getting … anywhere … near … you.”
“Your teeth are literally chattering. Do you want to freeze to death? Or did they skip basic survival training at your precious palace?”
“I—I don’t…” I try to argue, but my voice stutters with every word.
“Lightning strike me,” he swears under his breath.
Then, before I can blink, he scoops me up and drags me to his side of the blanket. His muscled arms wrap around me like a furnace, and he drapes his heavy cloak over us both. My frozen nose presses against his chest, and—Tides drown me—he’s so warm.
His heat seeps into me like a slow, treacherous tide. Unbidden, a soft moan slips free.
I hate that it feels good.
I hate that it feels safe.
I am anything but safe with him. I can’t let myself forget that.
“You promised … not to … touch me,” I grumble, voice thick with exhaustion. He smells like smoke and pine.
“I take it back. I won’t touch you unless you’re about to die of your own idiocy.”
I hate him. I really do.
I’m about to say as much, but a yawn betrays me.
“Can’t have the princess of Tundrayn dying on my watch,” he murmurs.
“You said I was the princess of nothing,” I whisper into the heat of his chest.
I don’t hear if he replies. Sleep swallows the rest.