Chapter 16 #2
The supplies she carried were far more extensive than what they'd given us upon our arrival.
Strips of pristine cloth lay folded in neat stacks.
Several clay pots gleamed in the firelight—salves or poultices, their contents promising relief.
A bowl of clear water rippled gently. Even bundles of dried herbs, bound with careful twine, released their fragrant essence into the air.
The female set the tray down beside the sleeping platform without a word, her dark gaze sweeping over Nansar's battered form before returning to me. Something passed across her features—a flicker of understanding, perhaps even sympathy.
Even she could see how grave his injuries were.
This wasn't just the aftermath of a hard-fought battle. This was something far more dangerous.
“The green salve prevents infection,” She told me, pointing to each container in turn. “The yellow salve speeds healing. Steeping the herbs in hot water is useful for pain relief.”
I met her gaze. “Thank you.”
She gave a curt nod then departed as silently as she'd come, leaving me alone with Nansar once more. I pulled the tray closer and knelt beside the sleeping platform, my hands already reaching for the supplies.
"All right," I murmured, forcing steadiness into my voice despite the tremor in my fingers. "Let's take care of you."
I dampened one of the cloth strips in the cool water, wringing it carefully.
Starting with his face, I gently cleaned the dried blood from the cut above his eyebrow.
The wound looked vicious, its edges already darkening with bruises.
His jaw remained clenched, the muscle there twitching beneath his skin, but he didn't flinch away.
His eyes stayed fixed on something beyond my shoulder, refusing to meet mine.
I moved lower, to his chest, cleaning each wound with methodical care even as my heart crashed against my ribs.
The cloth turned crimson again and again as I worked.
When I pressed the damp fabric against a particularly brutal gash along his ribs—deeper than the rest, still weeping—a groan tore from his throat, deep and raw.
The sound pierced straight through me. His muscles went rigid beneath my touch, his entire body tensing.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." His words came rough but warm, like honey poured over gravel. "I like the feel of your hands on me."
Heat bloomed across my skin despite the blood, despite the violence, despite everything.
I kept my focus on the task, cleaning each cut before smoothing salve from one of the clay pots over the damaged flesh.
The green mixture smelled sharp and herbal, reminiscent of eucalyptus while the yellow gel smelled and felt like honey.
But the wound on his left side, just below his ribs—that one worried me.
It was deep. So deep. The flesh gaped open, ragged and furious, torn in a way that spoke of a blade twisted with cruel intent.
Even after I'd cleaned away the blood and dirt, the extent of the damage was unmistakable.
This wasn't a glancing blow struck in the chaos of combat. This wasn't an accident.
This was deliberate. This was meant to end him.
My hands stilled, trembling as white-hot rage flooded my veins. Someone had stood close enough to look into his eyes and driven their blade deep with the sole purpose of stealing his life. And I knew exactly who.
"Kragath did this one," I said, the words barely audible. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
That single word confirmed everything. I stared at the wound, at how perilously close it had come to something vital, and fury burned like wildfire in my chest. "He tried to kill you. He actually tried to—"
"Chloe."
I looked up, my vision swimming with unshed tears.
His blue-green eyes captured mine, intense and unwavering.
"I couldn't stand the thought of him touching you," he said quietly, each word weighted with meaning.
"The way he looked at you, the way he spoke about claiming you.
.." His jaw clenched. "I would have taken a hundred wounds to keep his hands off you. "
My breath caught. No one had ever—
My father, perhaps. But no one else. Not in the Navy, where my ambition made me 'difficult.
' Not in the FBI, where my independence sent men running.
Not in any of the relationships I'd attempted over the years, where partners claimed they wanted a strong woman but couldn't handle what that truly meant.
I'd learned to stand alone, to fight my own battles, to never expect anyone to sacrifice for me.
I'd built walls so high and so thick that I'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone choose to stand beside me—not out of obligation, not out of duty, but because they wanted to.
But Nansar had. Without a moment's hesitation.
"Earth men are idiots," Nansar declared with such conviction that I realized I must have spoken some of my thoughts aloud.
A surprised laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, watery and broken, catching in my throat.
I bent back to my work before he could see the fresh tears threatening to spill over, carefully applying extra salve to the deep wound with trembling fingers.
The herbal mixture was cool and slick against my skin, its pungent earthiness grounding me as I worked.
Each gentle stroke of my fingers across his torn flesh felt intimate, necessary—a claiming of my own.
When I finished bandaging the last of his wounds, I sat back on my heels, suddenly aware of how close we were.
How alone. The pile of bloodied rags beside me told the story of his sacrifice in crimson and rust. Nansar was watching me with an expression that made heat pool low in my belly—something fierce and possessive and achingly tender all at once.
Unable to stop myself, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. Gentle. Reverent. Tasting copper and salt. "Get some rest," I whispered against his mouth, my breath mingling with his.
His hand caught mine before I could retreat, fingers threading through mine with surprising strength for someone who'd just been half-dead. "Stay."
The single word held a universe of meaning.
"I'm not going anywhere," I promised.
I settled beside him on the sleeping platform, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touched. Despite the pain he had to be in, he pulled me close against his uninjured side, his arm a band of warmth around my shoulders.
His heat seeped into me, chasing away the bone-deep chill that had been clinging to my bones since the arena.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm became my anchor, proof that he was alive, that we had survived.
I let myself melt into him, my body fitting against his as if we'd been designed for exactly this.
"Nansar?" I murmured, drowsiness already pulling me under.
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For fighting for me."
His arm tightened possessively around me. "Always."
I closed my eyes and surrendered to sleep, wrapped in his warmth and the intoxicating certainty that I was exactly where I belonged.