10. Chapter 10 #3
Maxx materialized beside me like a bad omen. "Well. That was the most homoerotic thing I've ever witnessed, and I've lived a very full life."
Serenya elbowed him.
"What? Two sweaty men grappling in sand? Very charged. Very tense. The hand-holding at the end? A bard would weep."
Eryndor closed his eyes. "I'm going to find somewhere to wash the blood off."
"Good idea. You look like a crime scene. A very attractive crime scene, but still."
I bit back a laugh. “Careful, Maxx. Keep talking like that and he’ll make you spar next.”
“Worth it,” Maxx said. “For the art.”
Eryndor walked away, and I watched him follow the healers toward an alcove carved into the stone beside the proving grounds.
I followed. Couldn't not follow. My hands were already reaching for him before I remembered—
My Marks spiked. Warning. Stop.
I stopped dead. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, furious at nothing, furious at everything.
I should be the one checking his wounds. I should be the one with my hands on his ribs, feeling for breaks, cleaning the blood from his temple. That was mine. He was mine.
But I couldn't get close enough to him to fucking touch him, let alone tend his wounds.
The alcove they led him to was small. A stone bench. A basin of water. Shelves lined with jars and dried herbs that smelled acrid and medicinal. And a healer.
She was beautiful. Dark hair braided with memory-metal, scales-cloth tunic fitted close to her body. Her truth-stone glowed steady amber as she directed Eryndor to sit.
He lowered himself onto the bench, and she stepped between his knees to examine the cut at his temple.
My jaw clenched so hard I felt my teeth creak.
That's mine you little skinny bitch im going to rip out your fingernails your fangs your—
“Ehm” I cleared my throat. Loudly. Eryndor raised his eyebrow at me and smirked—that bastard. She didn’t even notice.
“Hold still.” Her voice was quiet and professional as her hands came up to frame his face, tilting it toward the light.
I swear to all fucking gods false and true does she need to fucking TOUCH him so much—
"The cut is shallow. It won't scar."
"I have enough scars."
"I noticed." She released his face and reached for a cloth, dipping it in the basin. "Remove your shirt."
I saw red. I was getting light headed. This checkup better be over soon or she’s going to be the one that needs a medic.
Eryndor pulled the undershirt over his head.
I studied the floor. Counted the cracks in the stone. Breathed in then out.
“These bruises are deep.” Her hands moved across his ribs, pressing, testing. “Breathe in.”
He did, his hands briefly clenching into fists.
“Again.”
He obeyed.
“Good,” she said. “Painful, but clean. Bruised, not broken.”
She kept touching him. Fingers trailing across his shoulders, down his arms, checking for damage with thorough efficiency. Her expression stayed clinical. Detached.
It didn't matter.
I wanted to break every one of her fingers. At every single joint.
"You fight well." She reached for a jar of salve. "For a lowlander."
“How gracious.”
"Don't let it go to your head." She scooped the salve and began working it into his shoulder. Slow circles. Steady pressure. "Korvash could have killed you six different ways in the first minute."
"I'm aware."
"But you knew that going in. Didn't you?" Her hands paused on his skin. "You let him hit you."
"Some debts require payment."
She made a sound of approval, or perhaps dismissal. Hard to tell.
Her hands resumed their work. Lower now. Across his chest.
I will strangle her with her own braid—
Over the ridges of old scars and the fresh bruises blooming purple beneath his skin.
Eryndor's eyes found mine over her shoulder.
The bastard smirked.
Gone so fast the healer didn't notice. But I caught it. That glint in his eye, and the way the corner of his mouth curled.
He knew exactly what I was thinking.
I held up one finger—a promise.
One finger. One chance. Stop enjoying this or I'll find a way to cross this room even if it ends the world.
His smirk deepened.
The healer straightened. "You'll live. The salve will ease the bruising. Rest today if you can."
"Thank you."
She gathered her supplies. Her eyes swept over me as she passed—assessing, curious—but she didn't speak.
The alcove fell quiet.
Eryndor sat on the stone bench, shirtless, salve glistening on his skin. He raised an eyebrow.
"Something bothering you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your eye was twitching."
"It was not."
"It was. Right here." He tapped his own temple. "Very noticeable."
"I was concerned. About your injuries."
"Mm." He reached for his shirt. Pulled it on slowly. Taking his time. "That looked like concern. Definitely."
"I hate you."
"I know."
He stood. We adjusted automatically, finding the exact edge of the invisible line where safety ended and the burning began.
"She was very thorough," I said.
"Healers usually are."
"Very... hands-on."
"That's generally how healing works."
I glared at him. "If she touches you again, I'm going to feed her hands to Umbra."
The smirk broke into a real laugh—short, surprised, and quickly smothered.
"Noted."