Page 10 of To Tame An Angel

I snatched his cuffed foot and hooked it to the wall. It left one foot for him to use as a projectile. He did his best to hurt me. Walking around my bed, I grabbed the other shackle.

His eyes met mine.

He hated me.

“You’ve busted your feet,” I said as I opened the shackle. “The forest is filled with poisonous plants. I hope you’ve not accidentally killed yourself in the process of running away.”

He yelled behind his gag as his hands clenched within the bindings. His arms were peppered with scratches. Some looked deep and would need care. My task was certainly cut out for me.

The second foot was a monumental task to complete. Twice he kicked me, marking me with bruises. When I’ve had enough, I pulled into my reserve of power and flicked it just a little so that his legs stilled. He sensed the magic and yelled even more, filling the room with frustrated sounds.

Snatching his foot into the hook, he was finally bested, laying spread eagle on his stomach over my bed.

Grasping the pole of the bed, I panted, feeling depleted by my use of magic. He twisted his head and watched me with slight delight. This infuriated me and I hardened my resolve. Pushing myself up, I cast a look at the burning fireplace. Though I’d not wanted to do it tonight, his behavior deserved me marking him. Shuffling to the burning hearth, I opened the beautiful box gifted to me on my birthday. It was made of white wood and my family name was carved on the lid.

Inside was my brand, which was a foot long, with my initials at the flared end. He yelled even more from the bed, buckling, but it did nothing. My chains held him good, and all he managed was to unravel the bed linens.

Taking the brand, I set it on the edge of the fire, allowing it to heat. To stand was a struggle, and I could nap for days… if he weren’t on my bed.

I grabbed my medical bag, a kit my sister Valle lovingly put together as a gift. It contained everything I needed to heal him. If he allowed me. Bandages, ointment, disinfectant, pliers, linen pads, tweezers, a pair of sheers, and medicine for minor fevers, diarrhea, nausea and other symptoms.

He observed when I placed the bag next to his head. It was odd to do this in silence.

“This is my kit,” I said stupidly.

He rolled his eyes.

I rolled mine.

“It’s for you,” I attempted again. “If I hurt you, I must heal you. Those are the rules. If I break you… I must put you back together.”

He showcased only fury.

“You ran away. Fine. But you ran away from me. So, it’s my fault you’re hurt. So, it’s my task to ensure your wounds don’t become infected.”

His stare was so intense, I had to look away. He was filled with distrust and doubt. Not a bit of him believed I was here to care for him.

“I don’t know what they teach you in the pits and I can’t speak for other women and their relationships with their men, but I’m going to tell you about me.” He studied my movements as I laid out various items on the bedding. “I know you hate me right now. I know you’ll be angry at me for a long time, but I don’t wish to be your enemy.”

His eyes flickered to mine, and I wondered if the men in the pits had ever been cared for after their training wounds. His body carried various deep scars. When he didn’t react, I swallowed and organized the items, ensuring I had all tools needed.

The bottom of his feet was the worst, so I began there, certain he had a thorn or two imbedded in them. I also made a note to have him fitted for proper footwear.

When I moved the pliers, disinfectant, ointment, and bandages to his feet, he turned his head to follow my movement as I sat next to him. The flesh of his leg pressed against me. I grasped his foot to inspect it properly. Startled, he strained, and a muffled yell came from his direction.

“I’m trying to cure you, you brute!” I snapped.

A distinct ‘fuck you’ came from his muzzle, which I ignored.

His foot was covered with blood and grime. Standing, I filled the basin with water from the pitcher and soaked a cloth. As carefully as I could, I dabbed against his foot, cleansing the dirt and twigs.

He groaned, and I looked at him. His forehead was pressed against the bed, his arms strained against the shackles.

“You’ve made a mess of your feet.”

There was a shallow cut on his heel and there was a thorn imbedded in the ball of his foot. The inflamed skin surrounding the torn worried me, for it was a sign of infection. I would have to call the medic and ask for something stronger than what I had.

He was going to hate me even more by the time I finished. When the foot was free of dirt, I began dabbing the disinfectant. He didn’t like this at all. His leg was stiff, pulling away as best he could.

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