Chapter 49
GRAESON
By the time Graeson was making his way back to the farmhouse, voices floated through the air.
"Come on. Is that all you’ve got?" Ellie asked.
He didn’t hear the response, but he could hear some grunting and gravel shifting. He started running.
Had the soldiers come after them? Had—
He skidded to a stop as he rounded the corner of the house. To his relief, there was no attack. Instead, Ellie and Kalisandre stood in the front yard of the farmhouse, both panting.
Graeson leaned against the side of the house, crossing his arms over his chest. His cloak hung over his arm. It was high-noon, and the day had quickly warmed up.
Kalisandre wiped the sweat from her forehead.
Gritting her teeth, she charged at Ellie.
Kalisandre swung, her fist slicing through the air.
Ellie swatted it away as if it was no more than a fly buzzing around her face.
Kalisandre groaned, but she didn’t let up.
She quickly adjusted her stance and swung again.
Ellie, predictably, dodged it. But Kalisandre had learned from her mistakes and already had a secondary maneuver lined up.
She dropped to the ground and swept her leg across the earth, sending dirt flying and Ellie crashing to the ground as she struck.
Graeson smirked as Ellie let out a curse.
"Nice one," Menz shouted from the gardening bed, pausing his work to watch the two women spar.
"Good job," Ellie grumbled, pushing herself onto her elbows.
Grinning with pride, Kalisandre stood. But her adrenaline was gone. She mistakenly leaned her weight on her wounded leg and hissed out, grabbing her hamstring.
Graeson was there before he had even realized he was moving. "Are you all right?" he asked, panicked.
"I—yes," she stammered, eyes wide. "I’m fine." But when she straightened, she grimaced again and nearly collapsed.
Graeson caught her by the waist. "Maybe we should check on that wound, yeah?"
Kalisandre waved him off, and Graeson frowned. If she wanted to fight in whatever battle came next, she needed to heal first.
"You should be resting," he said for what was likely the one-hundredth time.
"We rested yesterday."
Graeson arched a brow. "I would hardly call the journey here a day of rest."
"Sebastian’s not resting."
Graeson ran a hand through his hair. "That doesn’t mean you need to push yourself to the point where you can’t even walk."
"I can walk just fine," she snapped, stepping away from him. Kalisandre took one, two, three steps before her knee gave out. She released a groan of frustration.
Graeson crossed his arms. "You were saying, little mouse?"
She shoved him in the chest. But a small smile pushed at the corner of her lips, one she tried and failed to hide. "Fine, maybe it still hurts."
"When was the last time you changed the wrapping?"
"Last night."
Graeson hummed. "You should probably check to see if the stitches opened."
Kalisandre straightened, favoring her good leg. She pushed her fingers through her hair and sighed. "Fine," she grumbled. "Ellie, do you mind?"
"Not at all. I’m kind of famished, anyway. A break sounds good to me."
Graeson looked between the women, aghast. "A break? I thought you were going to rest."
Both women shrugged, and Ellie said, "If her stitches are fine, I don’t see why we can’t continue."
A retort was on Graeson’s tongue, but Kalisandre nudged him, calling his attention to her before he could voice it.
"Will you help me? It’s a hard spot to see," she asked, almost bashfully.
Graeson blinked, and his lips parted. "Sure, of course."
Kalisandre nodded and hobbled toward the house. Graeson, still stunned, stared after her for a moment before he shook himself from his stupor and followed.
Graeson, simple man that he was, was transfixed as Kalisandre peeled her loose trousers over her knee and tugged the pant leg past her thigh. With each inch of skin she revealed, his heart pounded harder and harder. It was only her leg, yet he stood there dumbfounded all the same.
The last time they were alone together was in the forest when he had told her about his father. Something had changed that day between them. Neither of them had spoken about it, and Graeson was afraid to bring it up. It was still too new.
There were so many things he wanted to say to her—there always were.
But he struggled to speak, the words stuck in his throat.
More than anything else, he was surprised she had asked him to help her.
He was trying hard not to dwell on it or figure out what it meant, but it was harder than he cared to admit.
Kalisandre cleared her throat. "Can you—?"
"Oh, of course," Graeson mumbled, dropping to his knees behind her. He reached for the cotton wrapping and placed his other hand above her knee to hold her in place.
The moment his palm touched her skin, Kalisandre gasped. Graeson struggled to keep his attention focused on the task.
He swallowed hard.
Blinking away the haze that filled his vision and the emotions that stirred within him, Graeson unpeeled the bandage, being careful not to put too much pressure on the wound in case it was still sore. Once unraveled, he let the fabric fall to the ground.
"How does it look?" Kalisandre looked over her shoulder, struggling to see the wound.
Graeson brushed his thumb lightly across the bruised skin. The skin around the wound was a little red and a little warmer than the rest of her leg, but there didn’t appear to be an infection. "It looks good," he said, his voice thick.
"What’s wrong then?"
"Hmm?" he hummed, peeling his gaze away from the wound.
"You look upset. Did the stitches come undone? Ellie said she knew how to sew up a wound, but maybe she was lying."
"No, no," Graeson said, shaking his head. "The stitches look fine. None of them have ripped, either."
"Then what is it—oh." Kalisandre turned to face him, causing Graeson’s hands to fall limp in his lap. She tipped his chin up with her hand, her thumb brushing against the faint scruff that colored his jawline. "It’s only a small wound, Gray."
He stared up at her, speechless. How did she know where his thoughts had gone?
"It’s not your fault."
"But—"
"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "You do not get to take the blame for this."
"I could have lost you," he said, voice shaking.
"But you didn’t." She pressed her other hand to his face, cocooning either side of him.
He squeezed his eyes shut as she dug her fingers through his hair. Her touch was a comfort he hadn’t realized he had missed until that moment. His forehead kissed her bare thigh, and he took a shaky breath. He let the scent of lilac and sweat calm him.
"We both have a habit of taking on too much, of bearing the weight of too many," she said, her words gentle. "We need to stop. If we have any hope of facing Sebastian and his army, we need to keep our heads clear. Got it?"
"I’m not sure I know how to do that."
"Then we can learn together, yeah?" she said with a small smile.
His gaze bounced between her sea-blue eyes, their depth drawing him in. His breaths became shorter. He could see the quick rise and fall of her chest, the tension in the room tightening.
She tugged at the hair at the base of his head, tipping his head further back. "Graeson."
His name was a plea on her lips. Didn’t she remember what that did to him? The effect she had on him when—
Fuck.
Graeson groaned and closed his eyes as she bit her bottom lip. This woman would be the end of him.
Then again, he wouldn’t want it any other way.
When he opened his eyes and a slight gasp slipped from her lips, he knew she could see the beast within him, the dragon that lived inside him, begging to come out.
He brushed his knuckles along the side of her calves as he made his way up her legs.
Goosebumps peppered her skin in the wake of his touch.
"We shouldn’t," he warned, pressing a light kiss to her thigh, his gaze never leaving hers.
Her lashes fluttered across the tops of her cheeks. "You’re right, but…"
"But?" he prompted, his exploration stopping and his hands halting right above the backs of her knees.
She smirked down at him. "But I—"
A crash sounded from the door. They both jerked around and snatched their hands away from each other.
"Shit, I—I’m sorry," Moris blurted as he crouched and picked up the pieces of a shattered bowl. "I didn’t know you two were…were doing whatever it is you were doing." His wings smacked into the wall as he reached for a ceramic shard.
"You’re fine. We were just—" Kalisandre hesitated, a blush heating her cheeks in the most delectable way.
Graeson cleared his throat. "I was helping her with the wrapping."
"Of course, of course. That’s exactly what it looked like, not something else," Moris said, gathering the remaining shards and standing.
"Maybe you should just," he cleared his throat, "do that in a more private place than the living room? We wouldn’t want the old man to see.
" Moris scurried out of the room. The sharp tink of shards bouncing on the ground echoed down the hall, followed by a whispered curse.
Graeson shook his head and leaned onto his heels. He returned his attention to Kalisandre.
She had buried her face in her hands, and through her fingers, she mumbled, "By the gods."
Graeson tried to hide his amusement. He was not easily embarrassed. He had thought Kalisandre wasn’t either, but the current situation was proving otherwise.
"Want me to re-wrap this?"
"Please," she said with a nod. She peered through her fingers. "And quickly. Menz will kill us if more dishes break."