Chapter 44
‘Get out.’ Kyor’s voice is nothing more than a low growl as he glares at Llinos. ‘Now.’
Considering his display earlier with Zara, I wouldn’t judge Llin in the slightest if she sprinted off without a second glance in my direction, but whether it’s loyalty, bravery, or just sheer stubbornness, she remains there, blocking his way.
‘I’m not letting you in here unless Rose is okay with it.’
She looks directly at me, though I don’t answer straight away. He’s angry, he may well be drunk, and he’s definitely hurting. Yet even if he had a weapon in his hand – which he doesn’t – he wouldn’t hurt me. I’d bet my life on it.
‘Let him in, Llin. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.’
Rather than moving, she continues to search my face, her own crinkled in concern. ‘I’ll go find Benny. We’ll be just outside if you need us.’
I nod. She may not be pairing up with me, but she’s still got my back.
Kyor barely moves to the side, meaning Llinos has to squeeze past him. Once she’s in the corridor, she shoots me one more worried glance over his shoulder, and despite the apprehension I’m feeling, I send her a reassuring smile. Being alone with Kyor, in a bedroom, feels like a dangerous prospect.
As Llin’s footsteps retreat, I finally move towards Kyor. ‘How drunk are you?’
He stumbles inwards and his full weight falls on me, and though I can barely hold him up, I somehow stop us both from falling flat on our faces while simultaneously kicking the door closed. The last thing I need is for any of the other Rettlings to see him like this.
With a shift of my posture, I find a better hold and lead him over to a bed. As I lower him down I realise the drink isn’t the only reason he can’t stand properly. His black top is soaked around his middle. And it’s not from rain or sweat. It’s blood.
‘What the hell happened?’ I say, lifting it up and seeing the gash underneath.
It’s not that deep, but it’s long, and blood continues to ooze from the wound.
I’ve seen this man fight, and considering he can take down a freaking jotunn on his own, he must have been sparring with a dozen of his father’s guards at the same time.
‘Just a misstep.’ He lifts one shoulder and winces at the movement.
‘And you came here?’ I arch an eyebrow.
‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go,’ he says, and my heart aches anew for him.
His eyes lock on mine and there’s a twist behind my sternum that I hastily try to quash.
‘How about one of the healers?’ I ask drily as I turn around and move towards the sink, as if not looking at him will control the racing of my pulse. ‘You know, that’s actually their job. The clue is in the name.’
After wetting a cloth with cold water, I head back to him and hold up the corner of his shirt in order to press the compress against his wound. He winces, his body flinching in agony, but he makes no more sound than a slight hiss.
‘Healers answer to my father,’ he groans, visibly swallowing the pain. However much he’s drunk, he hasn’t lost the ability to feel. ‘They report back everything that happens to me, and I really don’t need our great king knowing every little scratch I get.’
I press a little harder as I wipe the edges of the cut, and I can hear his teeth grind together as he hisses again.
‘I had someone who would help when I got myself into situations like this, but now he’s …’ He trails off.
My eyes glance up and meet his, and I instantly know he’s talking about Zelle. Zelle was the person who would patch him up and keep his secrets from his father, because Zelle was one of the few people in the High Hold – if not the entire world, I suspect – that Kyor actually trusted.
‘Are there any more wounds?’ I ask. ‘Or is this it?’
‘There’s one higher up that stings like a fucker.’
As he lifts the front of his top further, I struggle to stifle a gasp. It’s barely a quarter the length of the other one, but it’s at least twice as deep. And it’s still bleeding. A lot.
I try not to show my concern as I think about the herbs I have in my bag. Some would help hasten clotting, but they won’t be enough here. As I move the cloth away I know there’s only one solution to this.
‘It needs stitches.’
‘I know,’ Kyor replies. ‘That’s why I came to you. You stitched up your own hand, right? After the temple? When you were injured. I figured you were the type of person who would do it yourself rather than getting a slum rat to do it for you.’
‘Slum rats,’ I murmur, shaking my head a little. ‘That’s a great way to refer to your subjects, Your Royal Highness. You really are a man of the people, aren’t you?’
He blanches. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Yes, I know exactly what you meant,’ I snap.
As tension fills the room, Kyor pulls his top down and locks his jaw. ‘This was a mistake, Thorn. Coming here, coming to you, was a mistake. I should go. Find a seamstress or something. They can sew. Among other things.’
He tries to smirk as he goes to stand, but he isn’t strong enough. Instead, his entire body sways and wobbles, his legs unable to support his weight.
‘Sit the hell down. I’ll stitch you up.’
He glowers and for a split second I think he’s going to stubbornly refuse, but then he drops back onto the bed with a groan.
‘Fine,’ he mutters.
Only when I’m sure he’s not going to move again do I pull out the small leather pouch containing my needles, though it’s the paparvy seeds in one of the side pockets that grab my attention first. No matter how much he tries to hide it, he has to be in agony.
After gathering the items I need, I move over to my little gas stove.
‘I’ll give you something to take away the pain,’ I say, placing a crucible on the flame.
‘No.’ His voice is sharp and cutting. ‘I don’t want that.’
‘I won’t give you much,’ I explain patiently. ‘Just enough to take the edge off.’
‘I said no. I don’t care about the pain. Just stop the bleeding. Do it tight so it doesn’t open up when I fight.’
Now it’s my turn to hiss. Does he think I’ll think less of him if he takes the seed? No, it’s stubbornness, pure and simple.
‘It’s going to hurt more when I sew it up.’
‘I’ll cope.’
Never have I met someone more frustrating, more arrogant, or more absurdly attractive. Sure, I stitched up my own hand, but that cut wasn’t anywhere near as deep as this is. I shake my head and try to focus, threading the needle then holding the sharp metal over the flame to sterilise it.
‘Do you want something to bite down on?’ I ask.
‘You offering anything fun?’ he replies, mouth tilting suddenly in a flirty half-grin.
Great. Drunk, injured Kyor is a horrific flirt. Good to know. Unfortunately, that’s not going to improve with my next request.
‘No,’ I answer shortly. ‘Now, this will be easier if you take your top off,’ I say.
‘I thought you’d never ask. But I could probably do with a hand,’ he admits.
It’s hard not to be taken aback. Never have I heard this man ask for help, even indirectly, which means he’s in a serious amount of pain. There’s no chance I’m going to refuse, but the prospect of even partially undressing Kyor Knavin has my mouth dry and heat pooling low in my stomach.
Keep it professional, Rose.
I reach out to grasp the bottom of his shirt and the silkiness of the fabric takes me off guard.
So smooth and soft, it’s such a contrast to my own rough-hewn clothes.
Mindful of his wound, we work together to get the shirt off him.
His jaw remains locked throughout, with only the slightest hiss escaping from between his teeth.
I’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s different now that he’s close enough for me to smell the musky aroma of iron and vanilla that rises from his skin. It makes it hard for me to think.
My eyes are drawn to the numerous lines on his body.
He wasn’t lying about not using healers.
There are dozens of scars – thin, silver lines that could easily be erased with magic.
Yet he wears them like a badge of honour.
No, I realise, not honour, but reminders.
Like the tallies etched into the walls. He wants to remember how he got them. Why he got them.
I unconsciously trace my fingers over one, catching myself as his flesh trembles under my fingers.
A side effect of the drink, I tell myself, because it’s not cold in the dorm room. Then again, I’ve got goosebumps rising on the back of my neck and all across my arms.
‘Are you actually going to do the stitches, Thorn? Or do you want to just keep staring?’
I flush as my eyes snap up to meet his gaze, his icy irises glinting.
‘I don’t mind,’ he continues. ‘Just I’d hate to bleed out. So maybe you could do the ogling after the stitches?’
Gods, I hate how right he is. I was definitely ogling.
‘Just working out how deep I need to go,’ I say, gesturing to the needle.
‘Funny, I was thinking something remarkably similar.’
A deep red blush colours my cheeks, and the heat pooling in my gut intensifies. Fuck! What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a prude, yet every flirtatious word from him sets my entire body on fire.
It’s just because I need to get laid, that’s all. Nothing to do with the man doing the flirting. Nope.
I steel myself and begin. His body clenches as the needle pierces his skin, and he exhales slowly as I pull the thread through, pierce the top of the wound, and then pull the stitch tight.
‘First one down,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll need another six or seven, I think. Still all right without that paparvy?’
His jaw is locked. ‘I’m fine. Just focus on what you’re doing.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m focused.’
I do the second stitch and then the third, all without looking up.
It’s crazy how much control he has. His refusal to cry out in pain.
That damn stubbornness of his. All he offers is the occasional long exhale.
After the last stitch, I tie the string into a knot before grabbing a dagger and cutting the thread, then step back.
They look good, if I do say so myself. I’m about to say as much to Kyor, but when I look up, he’s staring at me with a completely unreadable expression.
‘What?’ I ask, shrinking under his scrutiny.
That’s when I remember I’m wearing my old slum clothes.
Garments I’d be judged by the instant I left this room.
Garments that highlight all too clearly just how far I’ve fallen, and how far apart in status we are.
‘Are you seriously staring at my clothes?’ I spit defensively, folding my arms over my chest.
Kyor’s eyes lock on mine as he snorts. ‘Your clothes?’ he says, arching an eyebrow. ‘When have I ever given a fuck about what people wear? Trust me, the only time I’ve ever thought about your clothes is when I’ve been imagining ripping them off you.’
My heart squeezes tight in my chest. He’s only saying that because he’s drunk, though the stitches seem to have sobered him up remarkably.
‘You’re all patched up now,’ I say, throwing him his blood-soaked shirt. ‘You’re good to go.’
He stands up, leaving his shirt on the bed. ‘And what if I don’t want to?’
I feel my breath leave my lungs in a long exhale as my pulse rockets. But it’s not out of fear. No, it’s far more dangerous than that.
I lick my lips. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘And?’ He takes a step forward. ‘I was sober enough to find my way here. Sober enough to know where I needed to be.’ He lowers his voice further still. ‘Sober enough to know where I wanted to be.’
‘I’m not going to be your distraction, Kyor,’ I assert firmly.
This time, he doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t sway. Two strides and he’s right in front of me.
‘Why did you follow me last night?’ he whispers, brushing his hand along my jaw and grazing my bottom lip.
‘I already answered that.’ I try to control the tremble in my voice. ‘Why are you still here? You got what you came for.’
He laughs, deep and resonant, the sound shaking through my bones.
‘Trust me, Thorn, those stitches are the last thing on my mind.’
He takes another step forward, pressing me against the wall with his hips. ‘Tell me you don’t want this,’ he murmurs. ‘Tell me you haven’t also thought about this, and I’ll go.’
Gods, yes, I’ve thought about this. Only my imagination was lacking. Here, now, his voice alone is enough to make me slick with heat. His hand brushes over my ear, then clasps behind my neck.
All I have to do is lean forward, and my mouth will be on his. Devouring him. Feeding the hunger that’s been growing inside me since the first time I saw his icy-blue eyes.
My chest is heaving, and we’re so close my nipples are pebbling, brushing against him.
‘Tell me,’ he demands.
But I can’t. I can’t say I don’t want him as much as he wants me.
After a beat, his smile curls, low and oh so dangerous. ‘You want me too,’ he purrs in satisfaction. ‘Fucking own it, Thorn.’ He slides a well-muscled thigh between my legs, and I let out a low moan as he hitches my body against him in the most delicious way …
There’s a fierce bang on the door, and a second later the door swings open. Kyor is already moving away from me, ready to defend us both, but he lowers his hands a fraction when he sees Benny standing there.
‘You okay, Rose?’ Benny asks pointedly.
I nod, but I know that my colour is still unnaturally high.
Words. I need to manage words.
‘Fine,’ I squeak.
Kyor grabs his shirt from the bed and looks back at me. ‘Think about it,’ he orders me, like I actually have the option not to.