Chapter 2 #2
Indignant on behalf of her imaginary suitor, Mabel stood up from her spot on the sleeping mat. “Sir, if I were married or bonded, I can assure you, no one would ever be able to steal me from them.”
The orc leaned back in his chair. It creaked ominously under his considerable bulk as he gave her a slow, satisfied smile. “Aye, that’s a good answer, my blessing.”
Her blush deepened. “What’s your plan, orc? Drag your new mate back to your superiors and conscript me into service? I bet you’ll get a fine commendation for that!”
Henrik pushed himself away from the desk. It didn’t take an experienced healer to catch the sharp wince that briefly tightened his features as he stood, let alone the fresh bloom of blood that stained his shirt.
Giving his head a small shake, he summoned a smile. “As of this moment, my plan is to feed my mate and make sure her nest is warm. I suspect it will be much the same tomorrow.”
Mabel tried to maintain her glower as she watched him turn toward the stove, but it wasn’t easy watching his face drain of color like that. Every small movement seemed more difficult than before, and the sloppy dressing on his wound raised her hackles.
A bad dressing or improperly cleaned wound meant infection. Infection meant gangrene. Gangrene meant death — if you were lucky.
A healer could work miracles, but once infection set in, they were little better than the butchers who called themselves surgeons.
She didn’t need to heal the orc. He’d kidnapped her, after all, and absconded with her to only the gods knew where.
Even small battlefield wounds could prove fatal, but he was a big, strapping man.
He could, and likely had, survived much worse.
Not to mention the fact that healing him was technically treason.
But when he had to brace a hand on the wall as he put pressure on his bandage, she couldn’t do nothing.
Rubbing her eyes, she wrestled with her professional pride and her loyalties. She lost. “Henrik,” she sighed, “sit down.”
Straightening quickly, he assured her, “I’m fine, my blessing. I just needed a moment.”
“No, you need healing.” Forcing her boots across the floor, she gestured toward his chair. “Sit.”
He turned toward her. For a moment, he seemed unsure about whether she meant it or not, but when she met his questioning look with a raise of her eyebrows, he sprang into action. Or as much as he could under the circumstances, anyway.
Henrik fell back into the chair with a muffled groan.
It was normally the easiest thing in the world to quiet the part of her that was Mabel in favor of the part of her that was a healer.
She’d been trained ruthlessly by the head healers in Minneapolis to set herself aside — mentally, physically, emotionally — to care for her soldiers.
On the battlefield, there was no room for delicate sensibilities or proper manners.
Whatever maidenly squeamishness she’d once possessed had long since died.
And yet, when she ordered him to strip, she felt… unprofessional.
Mabel’s breath caught as he revealed a slate gray chest roughly the size and firmness of a brick house.
Blue-black tattoos swirled across his shoulders and over his chest, and the flesh covering the sturdy cage of his ribs bloomed with dark green and violet bruises.
His shoulders and upper arms were relatively undamaged, but she still struggled to look away from them, which was… unusual for her.
Gods knew she’d seen every inch of men before. A thick orcish chest wasn’t particularly noteworthy.
Definitely not noteworthy, she reminded herself with a firm internal shake.
Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she tried to set aside the curious way her heartbeat refused to slow and examine her captor.
Brows drawing together, she asked, “How long have you been fighting, soldier?”
Henrik shot her a wry smile. “That bad, hm?”
“I’ve seen the like of it,” she answered, reaching out to palpate a nasty, knotted scar on his chest. She did her best to ignore the way his muscle rippled under her touch. “Soldiers who’ve been in the field too long without a healer all tend to look a bit like a quilt.”
In a quieter voice, he replied, “You’re the first healer I’ve seen in a long time.”
“That’s because most of us are dead.” Rolling up the long, long sleeves of his oilskin jacket, she used only the tips of her fingers to peel away the edge of his bloodied bandages.
Even sitting, Henrik was nearly the same height as her. When she leaned in to place a hand over the nasty shrapnel wound on his side, it brought their faces uncomfortably close together. She could count his eyelashes if she wanted to. Which she didn’t.
“Mabel.” His hand closed over hers, stalling her work.
Peering into her eyes, he rumbled, “When I saw you on the battlefield, the gods spoke to me. They told me to find mercy, to protect you at all costs. Perhaps I’ve seen too many dead healers and taken one too many hits to the head, but I heard them all the same.
You’re safe with me — not simply because I’m your mate, but because it’s my duty. ”
Her throat tightened. “I don’t believe in the gods anymore, soldier. No god would allow the horrors I’ve seen.”
Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a soft, reverent kiss to her knuckles. “The gods guide us even in the darkest night, my blessing.”
Slipping her tingling fingers out of his grip, she whispered, “The night’s lasted a very long time.”
“Aye,” he replied, settling his hands on his thighs, “and now that I’ve found the light again, can you blame me for wanting to protect it at all costs?”