31. To the Death #2
I clench my teeth in an attempt to stop them from clacking.
The shivering has nothing to do with the cold.
My heart knocks against my sore rib cage like a wild bird seeking escape.
I stare at his big hands, stained purple with blood and think about how moments ago they had been weapons of mayhem and murder.
He nods to a stand with a pitcher and a basin. “You can freshen yourself up. I’ll bring more water for you and food. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“A little, yes.”
He gives a nod, the dark silk of his hair sliding to obscure his face. I can’t see his expression, but I can feel the tension radiating off him, like a spring unsprung.
From the aftermath of his combat with Cyphus? Because the other dragon dared to challenge him? Because he had to kill him?
I know I should be repelled. The gory scene will forever be a scar that runs through my memory. But I can only feel gratitude that it is Tage standing before me and not Cyphus.
I reach out, placing a hand on the tense, bunched muscles of his arm. “Tage?”
He stares down at my hand, his face curtained by his hair. It’s a moment before he looks up at me expectantly, waiting for whatever it is I’m going to say.
My chest tightens at the brutal beauty of his face . . . looking at me, seeing me. It will never not feel strange . . . not an extraordinary thing.
The skin beneath my fingers warms and sparks, and I snatch my hand away with a sucked-in breath, reminding myself that it’s not like that between us.
It can’t be. I’m no more than a sick puppy to him.
A bird with a broken wing. A turtle with a cracked shell.
Something to be mended and (hopefully) eventually freed.
“I . . . thank you.” It feels like the thing to say. Banishing Cyphus . . . fighting him. Risking himself . . . bleeding . . . killing.
He did it because of me. For me.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he says, his voice a deep vibration. “This is my home, my pride. You should have been safe here. That is the very least I could have promised you.”
I open my mouth to tell him it isn’t his fault . . . but fall silent at his resigned expression. He doesn’t want to hear that. Nor should I say it. I should not feel obligated to reassure him.
When everything is said and done, he is still my captor. He abducted me. That can’t be forgotten.
His big chest lifts on a sigh. “I will be back with a fresh pitcher of water and some food. Then we will get your wounds cleaned up.”
“And you need to take care of yourself, too,” I say, eyeing the blood on him.
I’m not certain what belongs to him or Cyphus, but certainly he’s not completely unscathed.
He must also be hungry. I doubt he received a steady stream of sustenance while out there in the Crags.
My gaze flickers down, away from his distracting body.
“And . . . perhaps put on some clothes?”
One corner of his lips twitch. “Does my lack of clothing still disturb you, Arden?”
And there he goes again with my name in that voice of his that feels like he’s tasting it in his mouth. I gulp, fighting to swallow against the sudden lump in my throat.
“No,” I quickly say. It doesn’t disturb me. Unsettle? Fluster? Fill my belly with butterflies? “You must be cold.”
“I’m a dragon of the Crags. I don’t feel the cold.”
“How nice for you.” I clear my throat. “I always thought I tolerated the cold well enough, but up here, in these mountains?” I pause to shiver beneath the fur. “It’s a different kind of cold.”
He lifts open a trunk. I sit a little higher, glimpsing the clothing inside. I watch with a mixture of relief and disappointment as he slides on a pair of trousers and pulls a dark tunic over his head.
He faces me. “Better?”
I offer a wan smile.
“Bundle under the fur,” he directs. “I’ll be back soon.” And then he’s gone, the flap falling back in place with a swish.
I expel a breath, the sound harsh, chasing me through the silence.
Flinging back the fur, I get to my feet, cautious as I move to the washstand.
I still could not move with complete ease, the sharp twinge in my side greeting every too-deep breath and every too-quick or strenuous action.
As I told Tage, I don’t think the rib was broken, but it would be some time before it felt normal.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I gingerly ease my tunic over my head and pour water into the basin.
Availing myself of the cloth and soap, I hastily clean up as well as I can.
With another glance over my shoulder, I strip off my remaining clothing and wash my body thoroughly.
It’s been days since my dip into the pool, and after sleeping several nights on the floor, I crave to feel clean again.
I dart several looks toward the door, fearful that he should return and catch me in a state of undress. Never mind that I’ve been naked in his presence before. It isn’t lost on me that this is a wholly new phenomenon—the fear of being seen.
Satisfied I’m as clean as I can be for the moment, I bite my lip and consider his trunk where he keeps his clothes.
Deciding that I can’t feel completely clean wearing the same garments, I tell myself he won’t object if I borrow something of his.
Rummaging through his trunk, I pull out a fresh tunic that hangs well past my knees.
It smells of him. I try not to inhale it.
That would be strange, and I’m trying to behave as normally as possible in a not normal situation.
Tucking my soiled clothes on top of the trunk, I slide back beneath the fur again, glad for the warmth. Tomorrow I’ll wash them.
I don’t wait much longer before he returns with everything.
He sits the tray down, and I sit up at his bidding.
His gaze skims me, and I notice him noticing that I’m wearing his tunic.
The collar is much too wide on me, and I adjust it, trying to square it evenly on my frame.
He says nothing, though, merely sets a jar of salve beside me.
When he takes my arm, I startle at the contact.
“I know it hurts.” A shadow of something passes over his face. Regret maybe. “This will help.” He starts to apply the salve to my raw wrists, his fingertips gently massaging the sensitive area.
My breath catches and falls a little faster and I let him think it’s my physical discomfort and not him. Not his nearness. Not his voice. Not his touch. Not his ridiculous body that no man should possess—and no man does.
No man because he’s not human.
This reminder is beginning to have less and less impact on me. Out here, in these mountains, in this wild place full of wild and brutal things, it matters a little less each day.
He finishes one wrist and then the next, his expression absorbed as he carefully wraps each one in a long strip of linen. “Go on. Eat.” He pushes a bowl of stew at me.
I pick up my spoon. “You, too,” I prompt.
He watches me for a moment, studying my face until I take my first mouthful.
Seemingly satisfied, he follows suit, tearing a hunk of bread from the large crusty loaf. “Your eyes. Is that a common trait among humans?”
The question catches me off guard.
I consider what he’s saying for a moment. “My eyes?”
“Yes. They’re mismatched. Each a different color. One a dark blue and the other like frost.” He doesn’t remark on the anomaly cruelly or spitefully. His tone is all idle curiosity.
“Oh.” I study him for a hint of judgment or aversion.
He’s dipping his bread into his stew and not looking at me.
“It is unusual,” I admit. “We . . . humans . . . usually have eyes that match. My father said his mother had eyes like mine. Two different colors.” I lift one shoulder in a shrug.
“At least that’s what he remembered of her.
He lost her when he was quite young. The memories are fuzzy, I’m sure. ”
“Mismatched,” he murmurs, studying me again, his gaze flicking back and forth between my eyes. “Kind of like us. Mismatched.”
Human. Dragon. I wince at this reminder of our differences.
He makes a noncommittal sound, and I wonder what he’s thinking. “I’ve never seen mismatched eyes among our kind either.”
So I’m odd everywhere.
I study him under my lashes, captivated by the flash of his gleaming teeth as he bites into the bread.
“I like them,” he adds, and my breath catches. No one has ever complimented me on my eyes before. “They suit you.”
“Thank you?” I say it like a question, as though I am not convinced he means it as a compliment, though there is no other interpretation.
He finishes the bread and reaches for more.
“Did you eat? While you were out there?” I ask.
“We managed.”
Watching him steadily devour a second loaf of bread, I don’t imagine he ate his usual quantity while he was gone.
I decide to press for more details. “What happened out there . . . exactly?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing new. Two armies killing each other. As they do.”
I take a bite of my bread, hungry to know more. “Do you know who they were? Where they were from?”
“The soldiers from Veturland were coming south, trying a new route apparently. They’ve never been this close to our cave before. They clashed with warriors from the Borderlands, if their armor and the colors they carried were any indication.”
“Lord Dryhten’s army?” I ask, hoping he prevailed.
“I don’t know if he led the warriors, but they carried his colors.” He shrugs as though it matters not at all to him where the armies came from. “One human is much the same as another. I’ve seen brutality from both sides.”
I stare at him intently, my stomach churning. “Am I the same as any other human?” The question escapes me before I can consider his answer might not be one that I want to hear.
He stops chewing and looks at me a long moment. “You’re something . . . else.”
I swallow hard. Looking away, I stir my spoon idly around the stew. “Your guest, right?” I quickly supply the answer, too afraid for him to elaborate on what he might mean—or not mean.
After a long moment, he agrees with a slow nod. “A guest.”