Page 26 of Sunder

Athan was true to his word. She hadn’t had time to purge her disappointments with a proper cry before he was back again. He had a neatly folded blanket over one arm, and a pitcher in the other, a handled mug crooked on one finger so he could carry it all.

He went to the bedside and set down the pitcher and filled the cup, holding it out to her. At least he did not cradle her back and help her sit up—just let her take it when she was ready, sipping at the contents and belatedly remembering she should peer into the contents to ensure it was only clean water.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, still gentle, as if afraid of setting off another bout of her hysterics. “I should like to measure your pulse, if you are agreeable.”

She did not laugh, but she wanted to. He couldn’t know her history, and she did not truly want to share it with him. It would only make him think worse of her, treat her more delicately, because she was needy and broken and...

She sat up slightly, careful of the cup in her hands, and nodded vaguely. It’s not like it mattered. It never did.

He did not reach for her arm again, but instead brought his palm to the back of her neck, his fingers pressing into the vulnerable lines of her throat.

He looked so serious, a crease forming between his brows as he lingered. This was not the method she was used to, and she swallowed, feeling caged and anxious and...

Something else.

His palm was warm.

Not cold and clinical.

He was handsome, now that there was light enough to notice. His features were well met, his dark hair complimented by the blue of his eyes.

His wings were a speckled brown, and he did not wear the harsh black of her kin. Blues and browns—simple in cut and utterly lacking in embroidery or decoration. Practical and layered.

How often did he get blood on his clothing?

It was a strange thing to wonder, and she refused to dwell on it. There were memories enough that could answer it, but she shoved them away, trying to calm her heart, even as it refused to quiet no matter how many deep breaths she took.

He hummed, shaking his head slightly as he removed his hand.

She tried not to notice the way his hand curled in his retreat, his fingers flexing lightly before returning to his side. “Are you frightened?”

She curled her legs up toward her middle, balancing the cup on her knees before she remembered her boots.

On his coverlet.

She paled, then used one hand to pluck at her laces, water sloshing over the side in her haste to undo them.

He took a step backward and put on a smile. Not wide—only the corners of his mouth pulled upward as if assuring her it was all right if she was. “I need to know if it was that potion of yours or part of your natural reaction. It will help me decide how best to help you.”

What she wanted most was for him to leave so she could cry herself to sleep.

But she could not say that, could she? She wanted to poke at the bond, to see why he could not tell for himself what she was feeling, but she did not want to wake it up. Did not want it to take over, rushing her even further into matters she was not ready for.

“I am frightened and tired and I did not mean for any of this to happen.” It was as much honesty as she could offer.

He did not appear hurt by her assessment of their evening, nor by her apparent lack of trust in him. He merely nodded his head and took another step backward. Did it cost him something to do so? She peeked at him, at the glow that surrounded him—the silvery threads that glowed gold where the light caught.

Hers.

A matching pair.

How could she tell him about that? She’d learned that lesson well, and even thinking of it now set a burn in a throat and made her pulse quicken even more.

She rubbed. Rubbed harder.

Athan stepped closer, reaching to still her hand. “Describe the discomfort,” he urged. “A pain? An itch?”

He’d want to delve beneath her tunic. To see the abraded skin. The scars. He wouldn’t see the bursts of light, the pretty shimmers. Just mangled flesh that had healed poorly. “I do not want you to see,” she protested before he’d even suggested she unfasten her laces, so carefully tied to just beneath her throat.

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