Chapter 20 #2
He chuckled, then winced at the way his bruised ribs expanded.
“Don’t think I will. Sounds terribly boring.
” Still, he did as she asked. Closing his eyes, he dropped below the surface of the water.
It rushed over his face and into his hands.
He scrubbed quickly through the lengths, pulling out the blood and sand matted there, desperately trying to ignore the flames of pain licking across his back.
He emerged, wiping the water from his eyes. Delaynie stood over him, holding out a clean and deliciously soft-looking towel.
“Wrap yourself in this then meet me outside.”
Quentin looked at the towel then back at her. “So…I can take my pants off now?”
Delaynie dropped the towel. It pooled on the tile beside the bath. “Just stop testing my patience so I can clean your wounds.” She nearly sprinted from the bathroom, scooping up the basket of supplies Rylla had left and closing the door behind her.
Quentin smiled to himself again, his pain again momentarily forgotten. He slipped out of his soiled pants and carefully dried himself with the cloud-like cotton, avoiding his back where slowly clotting blood oozed from his torn and ragged skin.
Testing her patience was just so much fun. He didn’t think he would ever be able to stop.
Delaynie was organizing the healing supplies on her bed when Quentin emerged from the bathroom, dry with the towel wrapped around his hips.
She’d slipped into a long robe, all that creamy skin hidden once more.
He watched her for a moment as she worked, fighting to keep himself from swaying on his feet.
He felt remarkably better after the bath. While his wounds were starting to clot, blood still trickled down his back. His once-white towel was stained and spotted with ruby red.
“Stop lurking.”
Quentin started at Delaynie’s words. She gestured to a chair she’d moved beside the bed. “Sit there, back facing me.”
“As you command, little wolf.”
A grin pulled at his lips as she grumbled something under her breath, still refusing to turn to him.
Quentin limped toward the chair, pain rippling through him as each step tugged at his injured skin.
He settled into it—chest against the cool wood, knees notched on either side—and adjusted his towel, making sure his more sensitive places were covered.
Not that he cared, but he’d seen the needle Delaynie was threading through with healing twine. He didn’t particularly want to push her too far while she had that thing in her hands.
They were quiet, only the sound of the rustling and clinking of supplies filling the room. Finally, it stopped, and Quentin heard Delaynie draw in a deep breath.
He felt her eyes on his back. Assessing. Soft fingertips traced gingerly down between his shoulder blades, outlining the path of Oralla’s claws. Testing his flesh where the wounds were deepest, feeling for signs of heat and early infection.
It should’ve hurt. They were open wounds, for gods’ sake. Instead, Quentin’s breath caught in his throat, and he had to fight the shiver that wanted to climb up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck raised as Delaynie’s sweet, warm breath skated over his skin.
Her fingers left him momentarily before a glass bottle was shoved in his face.
“Drink this,” she commanded.
Was he imagining the slight hoarseness in her voice?
Quentin took the bottle, fingers grazing hers. He swallowed his chuckle as she jumped back from him, tilting back his head and taking a deep swig.
He nearly choked, the liquor burning as it tore down his throat. It hit his bloodstream instantly, the edge of the world softening. The pain in his back dulled; not enough to forget, but enough to take his first full breath.
Delaynie snatched back the bottle. There was the unmistakable sound of drinking—and a quiet gag.
“Nervous, Del?”
She growled—actually growled at him. “No. It’s just been a while since I’ve had to stitch a wound.”
“I’ve never heard the story of how a palace lady received healer training.” He knew she had some knowledge about how to mend wounds. It was why he’d asked Rylla to take him here in the first place.
Well, one of the reasons.
“It’s not much of a story,” she said. Her fingers were back on his skin, a better distraction than the booze could ever be. “I liked to learn. I wanted to know a little about all things. So, I spent a few years in my teens shadowing the Verithian healer’s guild, learning the basics.”
“And stitches were part of the basics?”
She huffed a soft laugh. Gods, he had to fight back a jolt every time her breath ghosted across his skin. “Part of them, yes.”
Her fingers left him again. There was rustling, along with the clink of glass. Quentin twisted his head, peering over his shoulder.
Delaynie was staring at his back, regal brow scrunched, as if working through a problem. She held the bottle of liquor in one hand and a clean scrap of linen in the other. Her icy-blue eyes darted to his, bright pink flushing across her cheeks.
“I have to clean the wounds,” she said quietly, adjusting her grip on the bottle. “It’s going to hurt.”
Quentin’s lips tugged at the corners, holding her stare. “Do your worst, little wolf.”
Her eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Quentin turned back around, staring at the wall.
A hiss slipped past his throat as the liquor met his skin. It burned. Like hot flames being poured across his back, dousing him in fire. He hung his head, clenching the chair. His muscles tensed under his skin, pulling at the wounds in his back.
Gods, this was fucking terrible.
Soft linen dabbed at his burning skin. “Are you all right?” Delaynie asked, barely more than a murmur.
Quentin gritted his teeth. “Never better. But I’d love it if we didn’t make this last longer than it has to.”
“Right. Sorry.” The linen left his skin. There was more rummaging, then a pungent odor filled the air. He nearly jumped when she touched him again, spreading the poultice around the edges of his wounds.
“I think only two will need to be stitched,” she said after a moment. “The others have already started to heal.”
Quentin nodded. “Good news, I suppose.” He wasn’t surprised. His wounds had always healed quickly.
Delaynie prepared the needle and healing thread, working as quiet as a wolf in the woods. Always proving how much his nickname for her fit; she just had yet to see it.
“Tell me more about this coup.”
Quentin shivered as she settled in close, hands resting on his skin.
“I’m not sure it’s a full coup—not yet at least. They didn’t say much but mentioned—” His words died in a hiss of pain as the needle pierced his skin, tugging through his flayed wound and out the other side.
His vision blurred. He wanted more liquor.
“But mentioned what?” Delaynie urged calmly, even as she tugged the healing twine through his skin, pulling it taut and knitting his skin together before knotting it off. The needle bit into his skin again, and Quentin loosened a heavy exhale.
“They mentioned one of the other Elders. Natia, I think. She’s who confronted Mariah, right?”
“Yes.” Delaynie paused. “She did not take well to our queen.”
Quentin nearly snorted. “To put it mildly. It seems that while she pretended to make peace with Mariah, she turned around and spread dissent behind our backs.”
Delaynie hummed in agreement. “Did they say what Natia is up to?”
Quentin grunted as she started the next stitch.
“They said she’s amassing loyalists to her cause.
I’m assuming they were part of that group, trying to recruit more.
Their plan is to meet the Onitans at the border and push them back; they don’t believe Amasis will hurt their own people to protect a group of foreigners. ”
Delaynie was quiet, still methodically working: needle, thread, pull, tie. Quentin’s pain settled into a dull roar. Sweat beaded down his temple and his legs were beginning to shake, but it was manageable.
Sort of.
“And the gods?”
Quentin scoffed. “They don’t believe they’re really here. The idea that the dragons and the gods are one and the same isn’t something they’re buying. And even so—you’ve seen the gods. Unless they want you to know, they just look like…people.”
“It has been surprising, I agree,” Delaynie murmured, “that they look as flesh and blood as us.”
It was Quentin’s turn to fall silent. Delaynie wiped a soft towel over the skin between the stitches—for the blood, he assumed. “Mariah has to know. If it’s all true, then our people are going to face a horde when they arrive instead of a welcome party.”
Delaynie sighed, and again, that breath. Coconut and vanilla wafted over him, a sweetness that drowned out the sourness of the poultice. She unspooled the linen, readying the bandages. “I agree.” She paused, and he could taste her hesitation in the air.
“I need you to stand.”
Quentin obeyed, pushing from the chair and onto his feet, swaying slightly. He adjusted his towel again and held out his arms.
Linen was laid against his stitched and cleaned wounds, and slowly Delaynie wrapped it around his torso.
He helped her when he needed to, taking the bandage from her hands and pulling it across his chest before handing it back to her.
They worked in silence, but something shifted with each pass of the linen, with each hesitant touch of their hands, with each whisper of breath on skin.
A friend. A friend. One he loved to torment and whose frustrated blush and the angry flash of her blue eyes brought him endless joy, but a friend nonetheless.
One who was a regally bred Lady of Onita, from an ancient family that had long held status.
He, on the other hand, had no last name. Hardly knew his mother beyond the brothel she’d birthed him in. Didn’t know his father or where his ship might have sailed off to.
That alone made it clear: a friend was all she could ever be to him. He wasn’t worthy of anything else.
“I’m angry at you,” she finally said, “for being so reckless today. But I’m glad you learned this. The chance to save our people is hopefully worth the scars.”
He turned slowly, facing her fully. “So, you’re saying I’ll live?”
Those sharp eyes pierced him better than any blade ever could. “I think it would take a lot more than a few scratches and bruises to kill you, Quentin.”
Something about the way she said his name heated his blood. A strange tension filled the air between them, soft and taut like a rope of silk. He was suddenly very aware of the fact he was still clothed only in a towel, everything else bare.
Say something. He cracked yet another grin. “Because I’m so brave and strong in battle?”
She scoffed, but it didn’t carry her usual disdain. “Because you’re like a cockroach. The world could be on fire, and you would still find a way to survive.”
His smile stretched wider, and he was about to open his mouth to say how he wasn’t much of a roach, but maybe the first part—
“Don’t even say it,” she interrupted, and he couldn’t help but bark a laugh. Humor glinted in Delaynie’s eyes, and he didn’t miss the soft smile on her lips as she turned to repack the basket of healing supplies.
“I’ll need to check the stitches daily to ensure they’re holding,” she said.
“But if you take it easy and keep the wounds clean, you should heal quickly.” She grabbed a small vial from amongst the supplies and handed it to him.
“Drink that; it will help you sleep. And eat something. Those two things will help with the blood loss and speed recovery.”
“As you wish, little wolf.”
She glared, but no argument. Another win.
“It’s late,” she said after a long pause, setting the reorganized basket on the ground. “Go eat and sleep. We’ll need to tell Mariah tomorrow; the refugees will be here any day.”
Quentin nodded, gripping the small vial and starting toward the door. He stopped after a few steps, glancing over his shoulder. “Where did she go today?”
Delaynie shrugged. “She wouldn’t say. But judging from Matheo’s lack of color and general shocked appearance, I’d say the gods were involved.”
That would make sense. She’d looked like a woman needing answers that morning, and if there was one source who might have them, it would be the immortal deities who’d rejoined the world.
“I’m sure we’ll find out eventually, and it will once again shatter our world to pieces,” Quentin joked.
Delaynie chuckled softly, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a pointed look. “Good night, Quentin.”
He grinned. “All right, all right.” He strode the rest of the way to her door, pausing again when he gripped the brass handle. “Thank you, Delaynie.”
A breath of silence.
“You’re welcome, Quentin.”