Chapter 20 #3
“Everything is healing well,” she said. “The wound’s scabbed over, and there’s no sign of infection. Another day or two and you won’t need the bandage at all.”
Even now, she mostly wanted it bandaged so it didn’t rub on his clothes.
“Good.”
There was a strange tension in his voice and she looked up sharply. “Does it hurt?”
He breathed a laugh. “No.”
She frowned. “What is it then?”
His gaze drifted over her face with a soft searching touch and she realized she was kneeling between his spread legs.
Her hands rested lightly on his thighs and her face was only inches away from his bare chest. She’d been even closer a moment ago when she’d bent to examine the wound.
Her mouth had been right above that swell in his crotch which, now that she thought of it, hadn’t been quite so large when she’d started.
Was he…did he…?
His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb touched the corner of her mouth, then fell away. He shook his head, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. “It’s nothing, angel. Finish dressing the wound.”
She pulled away and reached for the waterskin.
She cleaned his wounds with the blessed water and then covered them with salve.
His breathing went shallow and he held himself very still as she worked.
Small muscles twitched beneath her fingertips.
She wasn’t hurting him. She’d treated enough wounds to know that.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was attracted to her.
But that couldn’t be right, could it?
He’d called her a drowned rat only a few minutes ago. He’d shucked off her clothes without even looking at her. He’d offered to find her a husband, for God’s sake. She didn’t have a lot of experience with men, but she didn’t think any of those things indicated interest.
She focused on her task, winding the bandage around his torso and trying to ignore the warmth of his skin and the scent rising from him—salt and leather and clover from the oil he used to clean his blades.
Her fingers brushed over a very old scar on his stomach, a four-inch diagonal mark just above his hip. It was paler than the rest of his skin, but barely raised.
To distract herself, she asked, “Where did you get this?”
He glanced down which unfortunately had the effect of bringing his mouth only inches away from hers. “Training.” His eyes were dark in the dimming light, warm and intimate. The corner of his mouth ticked up. “It was before I learned how to retreat. I was very young.”
“How young?”
“Eight, I think. That’s when we start using actual swords. Before that, they only permit us wooden blades. It was a lesson learned.”
“Eight is too young to be training with real swords,” she muttered as she pulled the bandage around him again.
He shrugged. “It’s training that’s served me well over the years. Most boys in the orphanage go into military service in one form or another. It may seem harsh, but it’s kept me alive.”
“You were an orphan?”
She hadn’t expected that. He seemed so sure of himself and his place in the world. She couldn’t picture him as young and scared and alone.
“Hmm.”
She waited to see if he added anything to that, but he remained silent.
“Is that why you became a witch hunter? The Church took you in when you were a child and this is how you repay them?”
He was big on paying debts, she’d noticed. Look at how he kept trying to send her to the Academy.
The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “No one is forcing me to hunt witches, Rowan. I joined the service because I believe in the work.”
Right.
Best to remember that.
No matter how many warped animals he saved her from, no matter how pretty he was, he was still a witch hunter and she was still…
well, not a witch exactly. Not really. But something she couldn’t share with him.
Which was a shame. He might know more about her than she did.
She’d never met anyone else who could do what she did. It was lonely.
“Why? This is wretched work. Do they pay you so much? Is it the glory?”
Maybe it was worth it to have women throwing themselves at him in the capital. Though looking at his face, he wouldn’t have to work this hard for that to happen anyway. Was it possible he wasn’t aware of it? Maybe she should tell him so.
He hesitated a moment and then said, “My mother was killed by a witch.”
She froze on her knees with her arms stretched around him to pull the bandage across his back. It was an intimate position, though they were hardly touching.
She stared at him.
His gaze ran over her face and the corner of his mouth tilted in a smile that held no humor. “It does happen, you know. Witches kill people with poisons and potions and charms all the time. Even the ones not demon-ridden can cause a lot of damage before they’re stopped.”
She finished wrapping the bandage around him and tied it off, then rocked back onto her heels. “What happened?”
She didn’t think he was going to answer. His expression hardened and he stood, grabbed a dry shirt from his bag and pulled it over his head. He settled it over his shoulders and ran a hand through his damp hair.
Then he looked down at her and extended his hand. “Your hands are like ice. Let me warm you up, and I’ll tell you the story.”
It was a dangerous offer. She could feel it.
It was one thing to look at him, another to touch.
He raised an eyebrow in challenge, a faint smile curving his mouth. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
She was so afraid of him.
But she shook her head anyway and took his hand.
“Never,” she said.
And he pulled her up.