Chapter 56 #2
“Thank you,” I mutter, glancing up at him shyly.
A muscle in his jaw ticks, the only sign he heard me.
He doesn’t look at me or utter a sound, he just continues barreling through the tunnels as Sig follows quietly behind.
We aren’t safe yet. We still have to get to the ship and hope that Dane or anyone else isn’t near the beach to discover us.
The fury seeping off him is palpable, and I can only imagine what Sig has been through since I've been gone. I breathe in his scent, the smell immediately settling my rattled nerves, and making me feel safe again.
It’s only been two days, and I’ve missed him.
Weston steps through the portal, looking quickly at the surroundings to ensure we aren’t stepping into an ambush before striding directly to the jagged rock toward the ship.
The gangway rolls out as we approach, and Weston and Sig bound up it, the sound of it retracting almost immediately after their boots hit the deck.
I let out a breath, thankful that we made it back almost unscathed.
“Lock it down,” Weston growls, and Sig steps into action.
“Below deck, now!” Sig orders the few Castaways who are still on deck, watching us cross the space with shock painted on their faces.
Stassia sits on a crate next to Taril, her eyes wide as she lowers the wine bottle she was about to drink.
“Lennox?” she calls out, hopping off the crate and taking a step toward me.
“I’m alright, Stass,” I get out, before Weston takes the steps rapidly, descending below deck.
I expect him to turn immediately and take me to our room, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he flies down the second set of stairs as commotion sounds behind us.
Sig rallies everyone, barking orders to stay off deck and not to leave the ship.
I hear the slam of a wooden door followed by a bolt snapping into place right as we hit the base of the stairs, putting Sig out of sight.
Weston turns sharply, then pushes the door to the infirmary open with his back, kicking it closed behind us once we are inside. A flame flickers to life in the lamp on the shelf, casting the room in a dim glow.
It barely takes two strides for him to cross the room to the table, where he sets me down gently, turning me so my knees hang over the side as he towers over me.
“Weston, I—”
“Don’t talk to me right now.”
I snap my mouth shut. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s angry. I expected it, but what I didn’t expect was the concern and worry lacing his voice, mixing with the grumbly fury.
Weston drops his head between his shoulders, leaning forward until his hands rest on the table on either side of my thighs. His fists clench tightly, his knuckles white as his chest releases harsh breaths, rising and falling raggedly.
It’s taking everything not to reach out and touch him, to run my fingers through his hair and wrap my arms around him. I want to reassure him I’m safe, and I’m here.
But I don’t. I let him have the moments he asked for. He didn’t want to talk, and if he wanted to touch me, he would have. Instead, I swallow the feelings down and hope I haven’t done irreparable damage to whatever was between us before I left.
His breaths eventually slow and his fists relax, his palms flattening on the table before he rises back to his full height. Teal eyes bore into mine, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Where did he hurt you?”
Gravel coats his voice as his throat works, and my muscles turn fluid.
Any worry that I’d broken the invisible thread that was holding us together disappears as I scan his face.
The serious mask he wears so well has fallen, just for a second, and I see how much he still cares before he pulls himself back together, hiding it once again behind the semblance of anger.
“It’s mainly my feet from the run. And, uh, I hit my head when I fell.”
His hands are on me in the next instant. All hesitation about touching me that he had from my command months ago is gone. I let him, trying hard not to lean into his touch as his fingers work through my hair.
His fingers brush the tenderness at the back of my head, and I wince, drawing his attention back to my face. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and his stare is hard as his hands continue roaming, working a path down my body to make sure he isn’t missing any injuries.
Once he’s satisfied, he turns toward the cabinet and rifles through it, pulling out a small vial. Uncorking it and tossing the stopper on the table beside me, he reaches out and hands it to me.
“Drink this.”
“What is—”
“For once, just don’t argue with me,” he growls.
I don’t argue. This isn’t the time to push back at him, not after he risked everything to come after me, and is taking care of me even though he could have delegated it to Sig.
I lift the vial to my lips and tilt it back, and watch his back from the corner of my eye as he pulls more supplies out of the cupboards and drawers, slamming them closed as he goes.
He’s still pissed.
The throbbing pain in my head subsides almost instantly, and I feel the pulse of magic thrum through to my fingertips. I reach back and run my fingers over the knot to find the tenderness is already almost gone.
Weston drags a stool across the floor, stopping in front of me, and sits down, pulling the supplies closer on the table. He reaches down into a bucket that instantly fills with water, dipping a rag and wringing out the extra liquid.
A small shiver runs up my spine as his fingers wrap around my ankle and lift my foot slightly, his gentle touch not at all reflecting the mood he’s in.
His gaze never lifts from his task, and we sit in silence while he tends to every injury, cleaning the cuts and applying the salve.
None of the wounds seem to be deep, and start healing quickly once the salve soaks into my skin.
I don’t know how long to stay quiet. He didn’t want to talk to me, and I think it is helping him focus on a task that will relieve whatever turmoil is going on in his head. So I just watch, grateful that I am back on this ship, despite having to come to terms with my failure.
Once he’s finished, he tosses the rag in the bucket and slides it across the floor.
I start to slide forward off the table, but his hands clamp down on my thighs, pushing me back to where I was seated.
Heat pools low in my stomach, but he doesn’t look up.
He just holds me in place until I readjust, scooting back into place.
I guess he’s not done then.
He stands and reaches for another rag, wetting it in a small bowl on the table beside me. My knees part as he steps in front of me, and my mind flashes to a few nights ago, on the deck of the ship when we stood just like this, only reversed.
His eyes grow dark as they travel up my body, falling on my neck.
Goosebumps erupt on my skin as he wraps a hand around my neck, his thumb brushing back and forth softly as his other hand wipes the wet rag across it.
I flinch as stinging prickles under the warm cloth, and I try not to draw back, but he notices and huffs a quick breath from his nose.
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” he growls, eyes fixed on the spot he is cleaning.
Dane must have broken the skin when he held the dagger to my throat, but in the moment, I was so focused on getting out that I didn’t feel a thing.
“No,” I say, staring him down, but his eyes stay fixed on my neck and the wound he’s cleaning. “Weston, look at me.”
The stubborn asshole still refuses, but I won’t let him think it’s even an option. I reach out and clutch his face between my hands, the stubble on his jaw tickling my palms as I force him to look me in the eye. His gaze meets mine reluctantly.
“No. You’re not,” I say. Our gazes stay locked, and I hope he knows how serious I am. He cannot kill Dane, especially not for a flesh wound that will be healed as soon as I get some salve on it.
He tears his eyes away and drops the soiled rag on the table next to me before swiping a finger through the pot of salve. The magic tingles as he slowly rubs it into my skin, and my entire body heats despite the chaos of the night and his surly mood.
We’ve argued before about how I always seem to come back to the ship injured, but how different it is now compared to the first time it happened.
I welcome the touch of his hands on my body now, especially after his indifferent response to the terms of the bet a few nights ago.
Where before I wanted him nowhere near me, finding his assessing overbearing and unnecessary, now I see it for what it is.
Caring. Loving. His way of showing affection.
He wipes his hand on the rag, then loops one arm under my knees, and the other around my back. Before I can protest, he’s lifting me off the table and crossing the room.
“I can walk, Weston,” I say, trying to wiggle out of his arms, but he only holds me tighter, his chest vibrating against my shoulder with a low grumble.
How long is he going to stay mad before he talks to me again?
He yanks the door open and steps out into the hallway, only to be met by Sig leaning against the opposite wall. She straightens when we emerge, eyes flying over me, and her shoulders sag in relief when she realizes I’m not seriously hurt.
“Cap—”
“Go to bed Signee.”
“Stop being an asshole,” I mutter so only he can hear me.
A harsh huff of a laugh escapes him as he bounds up the stairs, his angry footsteps echoing through the decks all the way to our room.
The door slams behind him, making me jump when he kicks it closed.
I should have expected it. He hasn’t closed anything quietly since we’ve been back on this ship, but it feels different now that we’re alone.
It’s not the same alone as in the infirmary when he was focused on a task. Something tells me the time of no talking is coming to an end, and I’m going to have to face his anger now that I’m no longer hurt.
Crossing the room, he strides straight to the tub, pulling me in tighter to his chest as he leans forward and turns the knob.
Water splashes into the porcelain, the sound breaking the tense silence, and steam rises into the air.
I always bathe before bed, at least I have after every shift out on the island, and it’s apparent how much he pays attention to my moves and patterns.
I almost protest, saying I’ll use the crew showers because using this tub feels like too much, but I keep my mouth shut.
He doesn’t want to let me out of his sight, and after disappearing before, I can’t say I blame him.
Stepping away from the edge, he finally lowers me down, releasing my legs first and supporting my back so my injured feet meet the ground gently.
The shallow cuts are mostly healed by now, the salve working so quickly paired with whatever potion I drank for my head.
I flatten my feet on the floor, flexing my toes and feeling no pain.
Weston disappears behind the screen, and the thud of the trunk sounds loudly through the room. He’s back in the next moment, holding his shirt, my shirt, and drapes it over a wooden bench next to the screen.
“I’m not leaving,” he says gruffly, his hands on his hips and his eyes still looking anywhere but at me. He gestures to the room on the other side of the screen. “I’ll be over here when you’re done. And then you’ve got some explaining to do, princess.”