6. Bromelene and Arnica #3
Rerdas spread his hands in apology, opening his mouth to fix it, but then he didn’t know what he could say. Imalroc didn’t want his patronizing, but he clearly didn’t want to be challenged either.
Imalroc flicked the lid off the arnica and held the tin out to him.
Rerdas took it uncertainly. Imalroc’s gaze pinned him in place. The battleboxer unlaced the front of his tunic and then carefully, slowly, drew it over his head.
Bruises marbled Imalroc’s torso, and long scratches crossed his ribs. Guilt clawed in Rerdas’s chest. Vativa alone was not responsible for this.
Imalroc glared. “Stop,” he hissed. “Feeling sorry. Useless.”
“I—” Rerdas’s throat closed tight. “I’m trying. What can I—can I help?”
That earned him a mocking flicker of a smile. That strange, intent expression returned, and Imalroc shifted closer to him. And closer still. So close his knee pushed against Rerdas’s.
“Here.” Imalroc nodded at a welt on his arm. When Rerdas looked at him in confusion, Imalroc took hold of his hand and shoved Rerdas’s fingers into the arnica. Then he lifted his eyebrows as if that ought to make his instructions clear.
“Oh, I see,” Rerdas said faintly. He spread the arnica over the marks, keeping his touch feather-light. He found he couldn’t look at Imalroc, and he wished the battleboxer wasn’t watching him so closely, from so little distance.
“Soft won’t work.” Imalroc caught Rerdas’s fingers again and used them to push the arnica in circles over his skin, pressing into the marks.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Imalroc let out a derisive sound through his teeth. Maybe at the absurdity of the idea that Rerdas could hurt him. Maybe because he already had.
Wordlessly, Imalroc lifted his chin and gestured at his neck. Rerdas dug back into the arnica tin, scooping a generous amount of thick medicine into his palm. He smeared it carefully down Imalroc’s throat, felt the tendons straining beneath tender skin, and Imalroc let out a slow breath.
Rerdas’s hand stilled. He stared at his hand, palm curved around the base of Imalroc’s neck.
Imalroc tapped the top of a long mark tracked across his chest. Rerdas should surrender the arnica tin.
He swept more arnica onto his palm. Slowly, he dragged his hungry hand over the swell of muscle in Imalroc’s chest. His hand rested against Imalroc’s warm skin, the battleboxer’s heartbeat steady beneath his palm, and he could not pull away.
“I—” he started shakily. “Best if I—”
“More,” Imalroc said, low in his throat.
Rerdas dared a glance up, and his breath caught. Imalroc’s hooded gaze roved over him as if he hungered for something too, except, he’d said… before, he’d said—
Imalroc guided his hand into motion again, and Rerdas found he was stroking his fingers gently down his sternum, down the rigid muscles below his ribs, down across old scars on his stomach, down to where there weren’t even any bruises, just more opportunity to touch him.
Eyelids sinking closed, Imalroc leaned across what was left of the gap between them and bumped his forehead gently against Rerdas’s. He rolled his head slowly, back and forth, his nose brushing Rerdas’s.
It left him utterly helpless. One of Imalroc’s hands came to the nape of Rerdas’s neck and held him still.
He forgot everything but how close they were, how close they could be, and sought Imalroc’s mouth with his.
Imalroc seized his jaw. When he spoke, his lips brushed Rerdas’s. “Get out,” he hissed.
It took a heartbeat for the command to penetrate, but then the fingers gripping his jawline tightened to the point of pain.
Rerdas rocked backward, jarring against the arm of the couch. Flushed scarlet all over. “I’m—”
Imalroc glared at him, a muscle jumping in the corner of his jaw. He looked suddenly furious, but he said nothing.
Rerdas fled out into the hall without a glance back and shut the door hard enough that it slammed. He managed two steps down the corridor before he sagged against the wall, staring blindly into space.
How could he have done that? How could he possibly be sitting there, claiming he intended to help, and instead use it as a chance to reach for what he wanted again? He had better control than this; he knew he did, but it seemed to have deserted him entirely where Imalroc was concerned.
For a moment there, it had seemed as though he wasn’t the only one struggling to hold desire at bay.
Imalroc made it clear Rerdas was asking too much from him, and he’d tried to respect that, and then…
whatever had just happened stampeded over them both.
If there was a chance Imalroc still wanted him, he ought to—
Rerdas bowed his head into his hands and steadied his breathing. Gods, he’d already lectured himself about the need for a conversation before he touched Imalroc again, and look how quickly that had waltzed out of his head. Imalroc needed to rest and heal, not be pawed at by a fool.
He straightened stiffly and retreated to his own room. He was determined he would not make the same mistake again, ashamed that he’d made it in the first place, and so lonely he could barely breathe.