Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
I’m jostled from sleep when we arrive back at the cottage. Bastian smoothly dismounts from the horse before turning back to lift me down into his arms. He carries me through the door of the cottage and deposits me onto the sofa.
“Wait here,” he says gruffly, before stalking into the bedchamber.
As if I’m in any condition to go anywhere, I think to myself as a throb of pain pulses through my hand.
He returns moments later with several pots of poultices and wet washrags, setting them on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Some of the poultices are unfamiliar but there's one that has an especially strong astringent mint fragrance, and it sticks in my mind, as if I’ve smelled it before.
“Now some of this might sting, but it should help speed up the healing,” he explains as he rummages through the supplies, before taking a seat on the table so he’s directly across from me, our knees nearly knocking together.
He takes one of the rags and gently dabs at the scratches on my cheek, the cloth coming away tinged pink from my blood with every swipe.
Once he’s satisfied with his attempts to clean the wound, he grabs the mint scented deep forest green paste from its jar and gently smears it across the cuts.
I hiss through my teeth at the sting, and he winces in response. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, breathing through the sting. “It’s necessary.”
“I’m going to have to take the ring off. Is that okay?” He lays his hands on each of my knees, sending a jolt of energy through my body from some sort of static, but he looks entirely unaffected. He only looks to me for approval before he makes any additional moves.
I drop my eyes to the mangled hand in my lap and the ring that’s brought me nothing but questions over the last few days. I let out a sigh and nod, starting to remove it myself before Bastian’s hand shoots out, covering my uninjured one and halting its motion.
“Let me,” he said softly. “It will probably hurt less.”
I can tell he intends for his words to reassure me, but the more I stare at the mess of my hand the more my stomach flips with a growing queasiness.
I’m not normally squeamish, but seeing my fingers bent and twisted in unnatural ways is clearly affecting me.
I’m willing to bet my face has gone entirely too pale.
The edges of my vision tunnel and the room begins to spin and tilt.
And it doesn’t get any better as I watch him gently twist and shimmy the ring off around the contortions of my finger and drop it onto the table.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” Bastian’s voice is kind, but firm, as it cuts through my spiraling thoughts. My eyes jump quickly up to his and I see the sympathy swimming in them. “Don’t look down. Keep your eyes on my face, okay?”
I give him a half-hearted smirk. “Not sure that sight’s any better.”
He lets out a soft chuckle at my dig. “Then look at the wall or whatever else you find more appealing in this place. Just, don’t look at your hand, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper in a soft reply, all humor leaving me, replaced by anxiety.
I keep my eyes focused on his face as I watch him inspect my fingers for the best approach.
He lets out a resigned sigh, as if coming to some sort of conclusion.
“I’m going to have to set your fingers before I can wrap them.
” His eyes lift to meet mine, and the corner of his lips twitch with what I assume is a restrained smile at finding me already watching him.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Liv. This is going to hurt.
” He sorts through the jars beside him until he finds one with a small pale blue disk that looks like a compressed powder.
“Place this under your tongue,” he says, holding it out to drop into the palm of my free hand.
“What is it?” I ask him, eyeing the thing dubiously. “Is it poison? Have you finally decided to kill me?” I tease with a watery laugh.
He rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already. Ten times over.” He waits for me to follow his instructions. I stick the small disk under my tongue and almost immediately want to spit it out. It’s absolutely vile. It’s bitter and smells faintly of rotten eggs.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mumble around the disk in my mouth.
He laughs. “It’ll help with the pain. It’s not a perfect solution, but it should help lessen it the longer I work. And hopefully dull it for the rest of the evening.” He removes his other hand from my knee and hovers both over my injured hand. “Ready?” He asks.
I give him a shallow nod, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on his face.
He nods in response and then gets to work.
He gently cradles the injured hand in one of his, while the other meticulously prods each finger, working to identify where the worst of the breaks and fractures are.
I bite down on my tongue, hard, to avoid letting out any pained sounds.
I don’t know what it is, but I want to appear strong to him.
I don’t want him to see me as weak. Especially after he had to fight off a vicious creature and fish my unconscious body out of the bog.
I’ve already shown enough weakness in this male’s face.
I don’t think my already ruined pride could take much more.
His dark brows furrow as he works, deep in concentration.
His eyes flick to mine for a quick second before returning to my hand.
That’s the only warning I have before he starts shifting the fingers.
This time, I can’t stop the whimpers that escape.
It’s searing pain that shoots up through my hand and arm.
He started with the smallest finger which he’s able to adjust quickly and helps to relieve the worst of it, but it’s still borderline unbearable.
“It seems that this is where I find out I have an entirely too low pain tolerance,” I gasp out between waves.
He doesn’t look up, continuing his ministrations, but regret flickers in his expression. “If I could do more to take it away, I would.”
“I know,” I say, closing my eyes. I don’t know how I know that. I just do. He looks as pained at seeing me in this state that I’m sure he wished he could take it away.
He works quickly to shift the remaining fingers and I’m glad I’ve shut my eyes.
This way I’m able to hide the tears that are trying to fight their way over my lashes.
This male has already seen me cry once, I don’t need to add more to that list. He really has the patience of a god for how he continues to treat me with compassion, even when I make incredibly stupid decisions.
When we met, the nightmare last night, and now this.
Wandering off on my own and nearly getting myself killed.
“Okay, all done,” his soft words interrupt my thoughts.
I open my eyes and look down to see all my fingers straightened out as they should be, albeit a smidge crooked in places and completely red and swollen.
Bastian reaches beside him on the table and grabs what looks like a roll of bandages, a thin sheet of wood, and a bright blue paste that carries an herbal scent that tickles my nose.
“What’s all that?” I ask, trying to distract from the nausea that’s starting to subside.
“Well, the poultice,” he says as he scoops out a glob of the stuff and begins to tenderly slather it across my fingers, “should help speed up the healing of your bones as it’s absorbed into your skin.”
“And how is this different from what you applied to my face?” I ask as I watch him ensure every sliver of skin on my hand is coated in a thin layer of blue.
“That’s to help mend the skin. It’ll speed up the healing to close up the scratches and shouldn’t leave a scar. On a Fae it should be healed by the morning, but it may take an extra day or so for a human. I can’t say for sure since I’ve never used it on one.”
“And the rest?” He’s finished with the poultice and has grabbed the smooth wood and bandage roll.
“I need to splint your hand. It’ll keep everything in place where it needs to be so the bones can heal properly.
If they’re even the slightest bit disturbed, you could have some complications with your hand.
” He flips my injured hand, so my palm is facing up.
He lays the wood, so it covers my hand from the center of my palm up to my fingertips.
“How do you know how to do this?” I ask out of genuine curiosity.
He flicks his eyes to mine briefly before he drops them back down to my hand and mine follow suit, watching his movements as he lines the end of the roll to the base of the board. “I’ve had to treat my fair share of wounds before,” he answers simply.
“Your own or others?”
He’s silent for so long, carefully wrapping the bandage around my hand, that I almost don’t think he’s going to answer.
I’ve asked something too personal. I’m about to say something to tell him that I take it back, but he speaks before I can.
“Yes.” That's all he says, but it’s answer enough, and I don’t dare push him further on the topic.
My eyes snag on the hand that’s bracing mine while he wraps it in the bandage. It’s the one with the strange marking on the wrist. I know I shouldn’t say anything, especially after I’ve already asked something personal, but my curiosity wins out.
“Is that some sort of birthmark?” The lines are thick and could easily be some sort of permanent ink on his skin, but the way it looks seamless on his skin makes me think that it’s not a tattoo.
Or at least not a mortal one. Maybe ones here are infused with some sort of magical ink that they sink and settle into skin.
His wrapping pauses for a split second before he continues, but his gaze tracks mine to the mark. “Something like that, but not quite.”