Page 46 of Dare

As she opened her mouth to express thanks, irritation replaced my concern. I took her elbow, deliberately cutting off those words. Gently, I drew the female toward me, the scent of her flesh permeating my nostrils.

Patience, I reminded myself.

And because she’d learned to distrust my intentions, her smile disintegrated. Those insolent lips parted, about to spew something defiant.

In one serpentine move, I hauled her against me. My free hand grasped her lips and squeezed until they puckered. Then a silken threat slid off my tongue. “The next time you attempt to tie me up, one of those berries will go back into your mouth.” With cold civility, I gave her a harsh jerk. “Do not test me on this.”

She smacked away my hand and wrenched out of my grasp, her features throwing unspoken vitriol at me. I considered punishing her for that, but the whiff of salt and florals assaulted my senses, perfuming the air like a hallucinogenic.

I launched to my feet, my stiff knees protesting the movement. Seasons, it felt as if my joints had aged a century.

Stalking to the water’s edge, I knelt by the surf and washed my hands. The foaming ocean swabbed my knuckles. I worked quickly and kept my head bent, averting my gaze from the contemptible depths.

I would not look beyond the tide. I would not check for sea dwellers. I would not appear a coward in front of her.

Instead, I distracted myself with other thoughts. A fruit recognizable to the woman had turned out to be deceptive—a mistake anyone could have made. She had overlooked the seeds, which hadn’t appeared until oxidized because even the familiar could not be counted upon here. At best, saving her had been fortuitous.

Peering at the ground, I thought of my grandaunts, who’d announced with pride at the onset of my apprenticeship, “He will be our greatest healer.”

Then I thought of my grandaunts years later, trying to smile through their grief when the declaration turned out to be false. “You’re doing everything you can,” they had assured me.

Yet skill did not mend everything.

I grimaced at the abrasions on my wrists, the cords having rubbed them raw. The female had done an expert job of detaining me.

Would I retaliate if she crossed me again? Naturally.

Would I do a permanent job of it? By no means.

Survival didn’t work that way. I may have experience in healing, but she knew Summer better than I did. We needed each other.

Too bad she had used a weapon to release me. I would have preferred her fingers instead of the dagger, so that I might see those hands work the knots, unraveling the tension in them. I went so far as to envision her digits jerking, tugging on me, her skin moving hectically against mine.

I glanced sideways. She plunged into the waves, the outline of her body spearing into the tide. I waited, scanning the surface until the object of my infatuation arched into view, her form spraying droplets into the air. As she stood mid-waist, the beast threaded her fingers through that sopping wet hair. From this distance, streams raced down her silhouette. Under the clingy chemise, her flesh would be slick to the touch, and the garment would be easy to peel off.

My fingers curled. As I veered from the sight, splashes resonated from behind, each one penetrating my spine.

I doused liquid onto my face, only to squint and curse, viciously reminded that it was saltwater. With my eyes stinging like fuck, I retreated from the waves.

By then, she had returned to the shore and set two disemboweled fish on a pair of flat stones. I took judicious note of the fare, with its green gradient of scales and long fins. The stomachs had been gutted, leaving no bones in sight.

We worked without speaking. I dug a pit while the woman arranged tinder and kindling, debris that had fallen from the trees. Leaning over, she planted a stick into a notched plank of wood, rotating the stem between her palms and pressing downward.

Speed. Friction.

I waited for her to run out of steam. Which took a considerable amount of time.

There was a puff of smoke, then nothing. Her lips pursed into a stubborn knot. Yet something about the way her brows crinkled was rather … amusing.

Done with this unproductive display, I squatted across from her. “Let me.”

“I can do it.”

“Winter builds fires.”

“Summer is fire.”

“Not the same thing.”

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