Chapter Ten #3
She’s determined to do what she can to make it easier on him. So, when he comes home from the hike, she’s ready for him.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the wooden foot stool. For a moment it looks as if he’ll refuse, but she tips her chin challengingly. When she repeats the word, there’s a command threading her voice. “Sit.”
Khiran sighs, but does as he’s told. She kneels in front of him; helps him unbutton his top, peels the fabric from his shoulders. Her fingertips brush over his chest, muscle flexing beneath the skin. “Where does it hurt?”
He tips his head back, face to the beamed ceiling, and closes his eyes. The flickering light of the candle dances along the planes of his exposed neck. “Who says I am?”
Her answering stare is steady. “You promised me honesty in all things.”
A moment of silence, a sigh in the dim. “Everywhere.”
Anna nods, knowing he cannot see it. She pours a small amount of oil on her palms. “Give me your hand.”
Eyes opening, he studies her face for a few moments before doing as he’s told. Anna massages the oil into his palm, her thumbs catching on calluses that weren’t there a week ago.
She knows his body heals faster than a mortal’s, but she’s also painfully aware that when it comes to injuries, he’s just as fragile as anyone else.
It hadn’t occurred to her until today that he would suffer muscle strain like one, too.
That every day he was breaking down muscle and healing it in a cycle that would take any mortal man a week.
It’s no wonder he’s as tired as he is when he finally comes through the door.
Her thumbs run along the lines of his palms with diligent pressure, massaging the muscles in his hand.
He groans, the sound low and deep as if rising from the very bottom of his lungs.
“You should have told me it was bothering you,” she chides softly, turning his wrist and starting on the sinewy lines of his forearm.
“I would have done this for you sooner.”
“Careful, my love,” he murmurs, eyes hooded and dark. “You may find yourself growing weary of my whining if you continue to reward me for it.”
Anna smothers a smile. “I think I’ll manage just fine.” The curve of her lips falters. Fades. “Is it harder than you thought it would be?”
Khiran’s sigh is so deep she can almost feel it.
“In some ways, it’s exactly as I expected.
” He glances down at his arm, tendons flexing beneath her fingers as he clasps his hand.
“I admit I didn’t factor in the physical toll.
I’ll adapt. Another week or so and it won’t be so taxing.
” She moves to his upper arm and his sigh stutters.
“I can’t tell if you’re incredibly good at this or if I’m just desperate. ”
“Perhaps both,” she offers.
“Dare I ask where you learned to do this?”
She shrugs. “I picked a bit up here and there, but I suppose I improved the skill during the First World War. They used massage therapy to help with the rehabilitation of nerve injuries. I was never officially trained in it, but one of the girls was kind enough to show me a few basics.”
He hums, eyes slipping closed and leaning towards her, his forehead resting in the curve of her neck and shoulder and his hands cupping the curve of her hips. “I hope she’s living a long and prosperous life.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the silence is broken only by her soft instructions and his breathy groans that flirt at the edges between pleasure and pain.
Anna’s hands knead at his flesh, working away the stiffness that has settled in the knotted muscle of his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” The apology slips from her lips like a confession, soft as a secret and heavy with regret.
His huff of laughter fans over her collar. “Don’t be. You’ve done nothing to warrant it.”
Her fingers trail up his spine, sinking into his hair as she tries to arrange her feelings into words. “When I asked you to stay, I didn’t know it would cost you so much.”
A beat of silence, heavy enough for her to feel it, and he pulls away. “I did,” he says, the words as firm as the hands on her hips. “I knew. And I chose you anyway. I would make it again, a hundred times over.”
Her heart sinks. Twists. “But—”
Khiran reaches for her, his hands framing her face.
Anna can feel the calluses lining his palms. She knows they’ll be gone by morning, and he’ll have to earn them all over again.
He holds her gaze, his eyes dark and warm in ways that make her melt into his touch.
“Stop trying to shoulder blame that isn’t yours. ”
There’s a comfort in routine.
During the early mornings, she shares a cup of chai with Master Tenzing and one of the younger monks to act as chaperon as he teaches her Tibetan.
When the gong rings, she sits with the children during their classes and picks up what she can until the language becomes easier to follow.
Soon, she’s able to listen to the lessons instead of handfuls of disjointed words.
At night, Khiran teaches her the art of silence—silent gasps, silent pleas for more. In the privacy of their room, they practice their own way of worship, whispering devotions against each other’s skin and finding salvation in each other’s touch.