Page 95 of A Dawn Of Blood

Nuala, Dryden and Raven are still on the floor, panting, and we’re all a little dazed, so when I sense something in the air above us and lift my eyes to the sky, that dead body is already coming down on me, probably awoken by the shadow we’ve just released.

Fuck.

Struggling to move, I stand straight and swing my arm back, but the next thing I know, Cain is stepping in front of me and the dead body is falling straight on his back, digging its claws in and starting to bite.

Everyone snaps out of it, getting it off Cain and killing it, but it’s too late, at least judging by the gashes on Cain’s shoulders.

Chapter 65

Back in his room in the castle, I’m watching Cain try to make his way to the bed on his own, despite the horrid state of his wound.

“Let me try to heal you,” I plead for the millionth time since he drove everyone else away with his stupid snarling.

“No,” he grinds out.

I clench my jaw. I’m struggling to process what’s just happened, both the bit with him contracting the virus and the bit with doing it forme.

He seems to be getting delirious, because as he’s stumbling to the bed, he’s mumbling some incoherent stuff about destiny, weakness, smiles… Nothing I can make any sense of, but seeing him like this is only making me softer for him.

I come to block his way, making him stumble back and throw daggers at me. But I don’t care. “Youwilllet me try,” I order.

“No,” he mumbles forcefully, “I’m not letting you touch me.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?” I drawl. “That’s what you want written on your tombstone then? ‘He was prepared to die so she wouldn’t touch him.’ You’re right, sounds really good, mature and everything.”

“How about, he wasn’t prepared to owe his life to anyone, let alone the biggest pain in the ass this world has ever seen?” he snaps.

I roll my eyes. But this makes me remember how transactional he is about his relationships with people. “Alright,” I keep coaxing, “in exchange for me doing this for you, you’ll owe me a favor.”

Now this gives him pause. “Fine,” he concedes, his body swaying a little in an effort to stay upright.

Quickly, so as not to give him a chance to change his mind, I grab a chair and I make him sit down and hug the backrest. “Take your shirt off,” I order.

He does as he’s told, and just looking at the wound makes me wince, but I don’t want to be wasting any more time. He lets me get close, craning his neck to try to watch me closely as I do.

I place my palms so they’re hovering above his shoulder and start work on healing him. While I do, I come to realize this will take more than one session, potentially many.

It takes me a while, but eventually I wrap up the first session, stopping the bleeding, sealing the wound and taking as much of the poison out as I can in one go.

He doesn’t seem to be in pain any longer.

I should stop now.

But, baffled by the fact that he’d put himself in so much danger to stopmefrom getting infected and seeing how tense he is, I fail to stop myself.

“Thank you for saving me,” I murmur, both to express my gratitude and distract him from what I’m about to do.

He freezes a little, then mumbles something I don’t understand.

Slowly, gently, I place my hands on his shoulder, pretending to still be working.

He flinches, but he immediately relaxes. And when I increase the pressure and start slowly massaging him, he doesn’t protest.

Gods, he’s all knots. It’s a wonder he’s not snapping with all the built-up tension. I shift my hands so I’m running my thumbs up his nape and he lets out a low, dragged-out groan that sets my blood on fire, because it’s the first sound of pleasure I’ve ever heard him make.

But the very next second, I notice him freeze again.

Then there’s the iron-clad grip of his hand on mine. And then, before I know it, too quickly for me to process it, he’s out of his chair and I’m stumbling back, looking up at him as he throws daggers at me.

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