Page 50 of The Brute and the Blade

Because a world, a life without him in it...

I refuse to imagine it. I can't.

My hands are shaking as I build a fire in the grate, nurse it to gasping, guttering life. The light is dim, fitful, but it's enough to see by as I fill a dented kettle from the pump behind the cottage and set it to boil. Then I gather the meager supplies this place has to offer—moth-eaten blankets, a chipped basin, rags that may once have been dish towels.

All the while, I keep up a steady stream of chatter, a rambling monologue directed at Grok's still, silent form. Anything to fill the fear-frozen silence, to tether him to me, to life.

"You just rest now, love," I croon as I cut away his blood-soaked clothing, clean the ugly gash as best I can. "Let me take care of everything. You've spent so long taking care of me, protecting me...now it's my turn. My turn to be the strong one, the savior."

I pause, throat closing on a hard knot of emotion. With infinite gentleness, I brush sweat-soaked hair back from his brow, trace the beloved lines of his face. The grim arch of his brow, the harsh blade of his cheekbones, the full, firm curve of his lips. Lips that have smiled for me, snarled for me. Whispered words of love and lust, breathed prayers and promises into my skin.

My beautiful, brutal warrior. My heart.

Mine.

"You can't leave me," I rasp, the words harsh, broken. A vow, a command. "Do you hear me, Grok? You don't get to do this. Don't get to make me love you, make me need you...and then rip yourself away. You promised, remember? To stay. To never leave me. So you damn well better keep that promise, you great bloody brute. Or I swear by all the gods, I'll follow you into the dark and drag you back myself."

I'm crying openly now, tears and snot and the salt-sting of grief smearing my cheeks. I make no attempt to stem the tide, to be strong or stoic. There's no one here to see, to witness my weakness, my unraveling.

No one but him, my love, my life.

Shuddering, I lean down and press my lips to his, tasting my own tears. "I need you," I breathe against his slack, silent mouth. "I need you, Grok. More than breath, more than life itself. So you fight, damn you. Fight and stay with me. Don't you dare leave me alone in this world, not after everything. Not now. Not ever."

I linger one last moment, memorizing the rasp of his breath, the thud of his heart. Then, slowly, painfully, I straighten, squaring my shoulders, my spine. Swiping at my cheeks with the back of one trembling hand.

Enough of that, Lily. Enough weeping and wailing like some weak, simpering damsel. Grok needs your strength now, not your sniveling.

So get to it.

Jaw firming, I set to work, sluicing hot water and herb-steeped poultices over the wound, packing it with every scrap of healing knowledge I've ever gleaned. From my mother, gone too soon. From the wise women and hedge witches of the village, the healers who patched me up after one too many reckless scraps.

I bind the wound tight with strips of boiled linen, wrap Grok in every blanket I can find until he looks like some hulking woodland beast, shaggy and strange. Trickle water and tinctures past his cracked lips, chafing his hands, his face, to bring blood and warmth back to waxy flesh.

All through the night, I tend him. Kneel beside his bed and plead in silence for the only miracle I've ever needed, ever wanted.

Please, please...just let him live. Let me keep this love, this life...that I've only just, finally found. I'll pay any price, bear any burden...

Just give him back to me. Whole and hale and safe.

Please.

As the grey fingers of dawn creep through the cracks in the shutters, Grok stirs, a deep-chested groan quaking the still air. I jerk upright from my slumped vigil, every nerve alight, heart in my throat.

"Grok?" My voice cracks on his name, battle-rough and breakable. "Can you hear me, love? Are you with me?"

Slowly, painfully, his eyes flutter open, strain to focus on my face. The amber of them is clouded, confused, but aware.

Alive.

"Lily," he croaks, little more than a breath, a broken wisp of sound. But it's the sweetest music I've ever heard. "What...where...?"

"Shh," I soothe, reaching out to stroke his brow, careful-tender. "Don't try to talk yet. You're safe, Grok. We both are. I found us shelter, patched you up as best I could. You're going to be alright."

My voice wobbles, threatens to crack, but I swallow hard against the upwelling of relieved tears. Have to be strong, steady. For him.

He frowns, a furrow forming between his brows as he takes in our surroundings, the pain and pallor of his own face. Memory slowly kindles in his gaze, horror and fury and aching concern.

"The battle," he rasps urgently, struggling to rise. "Varkos...did he...are you...?"

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