Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Zevayr sags with so much relief, I worry he’ll sink into the earth and vanish.
“What do I do?” I ask softly.
“Nothing. Just sit back. I’ll do everything,” he says. Zevayr scoots closer until he’s almost straddling my thighs. His palms press against the sides of my neck, hands cool against my hot, sweaty skin.
At first, there’s nothing.
Just his large hands pressing into my neck, the firm weight of his thighs bracketing mine. I’m about to open my eyes and ask him if he’s doing it right when—
Oh.
There it is.
A rush of power trickling into my veins, strange and unfamiliar. Not mine, but not unwelcome. It flows faster and stronger, the trickle surging into a heady rush and—
Zevayr removes his hands.
“That should do it, I think.” He’s watching me intently, his eyes dark.
“I can feel it. Your power. It’s inside me. It’s—it’s mingling with my own.”
“Yeah. It’s only temporary, though. In another ten minutes, you should be able to heal yourself.”
“Will I be able to control lightning?”
He chuckles. “No. It’ll only strengthen your natural wielding affinity. Unless you’re secretly hiding stormwielding abilities.”
I snort. “I’d be the realm’s worst stormwielder. Cowering from a storm I summoned myself.” Zevayr breaks out into a wide grin, his first real smile since the arrow pierced my side.
It sends a rush of warmth through me.
Or is that his power?
We sit in silence, Zevayr’s fingers tracing gentle lines along the inside of my arm, occasionally checking my pulse with two fingers.
After ten minutes, I lift my tunic—the wound looks even worse.
I call to my power.
And Tides, does it respond.
My hands glow with bright, white light, brighter than I’ve ever summoned. I cover the wound with my palms, and in minutes, my body is free of infection, the skin mending itself until not even a scar remains.
Zevayr watches the wound close, then exhales a relieved sigh, sagging against me, as if the toll of the last three days is too heavy to bear for another moment. I set my palms against his neck and send a flowing rush of healing power through him as well.
“Stop. Conserve your energy,” he says, but I ignore him and keep healing, soothing every aching muscle.
I grin brightly at him, adrenaline surging through me.
I could do anything.
I could do everything.
I’m so strong.
“How much power did you give me?” I ask, standing up and stretching. Tides, it feels good to move.
“Very little. It’s almost like a high at first. It’ll wear off soon and then…” He trails off.
“We wait for me to try and ravish you?” I give him a mocking smile, brows raised.
“…Yes.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Let’s hope.”
My blood is boiling in my veins.
It’s incredibly hot. Maybe my fever is coming back. Did I miss healing some of the infection?
But I know that’s not the case.
Unbidden, my eyes find Zevayr where he’s removing the remains of our dinner from the spit over the fire. His dark hair curls at the nape of his neck. It’s grown out since we first met. It looks so soft. I want to tangle my hands in it and tug his face toward me.
My fingers twitch.
The muscles in his back contract as he moves. My eyes are glued to them, following each movement with rapt attention. He must sense my eyes on him, because he turns around, and his face, Tides drown me, his gorgeous face.
It’s perfect. Sharp jawline, covered in stubble—what would it feel like against me? The rough scrape against my soft skin. Full, sensuous lips that I’ve thought about kissing often enough. Straight, dark brows framing stormy gray eyes—
Gray eyes that are watching me with mild amusement.
“You all right there, Mayah?” he asks, his lips twitching. I nearly moan at the sound of his gravelly voice. How is it so impossibly deep?
“Yeah,” I whisper. My voice is low and breathy. “Yeah, just a little warm.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Zevayr grabs a canteen and hands it to me. “Drink some water. You look flushed.”
Our fingers brush as I take it. A spark skitters along my skin at the contact. He kneels before me, scanning my face. Whatever he sees makes his eyes darken.
“I’m going to stay on that side of camp”—he points behind him—“and you’re going to stay right here. If we can do that, we’ll be fine.”
I down the entire canteen.
My stubborn eyes follow him to the other side of the campsite, where he sits and begins sharpening his weapons.
His long fingers grip the whetstone, sliding across the blade repeatedly with firm, steady motions.
What would his fingers feel like on my skin?
I want to be the sword in his hands, as he rhythmically—
“Mayah.” His voice is gruffer now. Angry. It arouses me even more. “Stop looking at me. Find something to keep yourself busy.”
With a start, I realize my hand is cupping my breast, the other pressed flat over my stomach, inching lower. But what startles me more is the fact that I’m not embarrassed at all.
Sizzling heat coils low in my belly, heady and hot. I’m burning up, and there’s a pounding ache between my thighs that’s growing impossible to ignore. My eyes are riveted to his handsome face, his strong masculine neck, his thick collarbones.
I don’t even realize I’ve moved until he barks my name.
I love the sound of it on his lips.
Tides, his lips. His full, perfect lips. They belong on my skin.
The ground is soft beneath my knees as I kneel before him, reaching for the sword in his large hands.
“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, angry eyes dark with an impending storm.
“Keeping myself busy.” The ache between my legs is unbearable.
The sword hits the ground with a dull thud, and then I’m in his lap, thighs straddling his hips, hands caressing his shoulders.
This isn’t me. Deep down, I know that. But it feels like me.
Tides, he smells so good. His proximity soothes the desperate thrum inside me.
“Skies, Mayah, stop.” He grabs my upper arms in a firm grip, keeping me from coiling around him.
“I’m aching, Zev.” My voice is low, petulant. His hands drop to my waist when I say his name. “I want you. Please.”
He mutters a curse and grips my waist harder. For a heartbeat, it seems he’ll pull me closer—kiss me. But then I roll my hips, and he shoves me away like I burned him.
“You’re not yourself. It’s my power inside you. This will wear off. Just go back. Over. There.” His eyes are nearly black.
I pout, and his gaze drops to my lips before he drags it back up. Lightning flashes in his eyes as he glares at me, and I want it to strike me down.
I trudge back to my side of camp.
Zev returns to sharpening his sword while I lean against a tree, nursing the sting of rejection. I’m so tidesdamned hot, it’s like my skin is on fire. I peel off my tunic, leaving only a thin white chemise behind.
“What are you doing?” he growls, a vein pulsing in his forehead.
“It’s hot.” I hook my fingers beneath the hem of my chemise, and in the space between heartbeats, Zev crosses the camp, his fingers clamping in a bruising grip around my wrist.
“Stop taking off your clothes,” he grits out.
My free hand slides over the defined ridges of his abdomen, up his muscled chest, to cup his face. “I thought you were going to stay on your side, Zev,” I whisper huskily, inching closer.
He wrenches away from me.
“Mayah, please,” he groans, as if in pain.
The ache inside me is all consuming.
I need—
I need—
Tides, I can’t think. Why won’t he help me?
“Please, Zev,” I moan. “It’s unbearable.”
He’s panting now. His throat bobs as he swallows. Firelight glints across the faint sheen of sweat on his neck. I want to taste it. “Why don’t you lie down? Try to sleep. It’ll wear off in a few hours.”
I take a step closer to him.
He takes a step back.
“Or maybe I can go for a walk, and you can—”
Another step closer.
Another step back.
“You won’t help me?” I don’t recognize my voice—whiny and needy.
He shakes his head, hands raised as if to protect himself.
“Fine.”
Tears sting my eyes—from his rejection, but also from the pure, tortuous need warming my blood.
I spin and bolt into the woods.