Page 73 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

Tears pricking my eyes, I lean in and press my fingertips to his chin, forcing his face up so he looks at me. “Thank you,” I tell him in a soft voice. “It was very gallant.”

“It was pure foolishness, and now I will pay for it.” He grimaces. “My father would be ill-pleased.”

“He’s not here.” I kiss his hard, unforgiving mouth. “He doesn’t know our situation.” I kiss him again, nibbling on his lip, because I love the feel of him against me. “And I’m grateful, even if I hate that you got hurt. May I tend to you?”

“Oh, so now you ask with sweet words?” His voice is wry as he gazes up at me. “You no longer demand?”

I cannot help but grin. “You respond best to demands. Maybe I should.” But I don’t. I just nip at his lower lip again, scraping my teeth over it, and then I lift my head. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Nemeth makes a choked sound as I reach for his wing. He grabs my hand, stopping me first. “Wings are…sensitive.”

Right. And this one is wounded and he’s getting all squirmy. “You’re allowed to get turned on. I won’t judge you.”

He scrubs a hand over his face again and shifts in his seat. “I don’t think I’ll get turned on, but I might get twitchy. Fair warning.”

So he’s going to wriggle like a naughty little boy? I can deal with that. I move toward his wing and he extends it out—then hisses with pain. I’m careful as I gently brush the cloth over the wound. The angle of treating him is odd and uncomfortable, but I give it a shot anyhow, wiping away the excess blood and examining the gash. The membrane looks thick enough to hold astitch, and I wonder if I can sew it up. As I consider it, the wing stretched in front of me gives a shiver.

I glance over at Nemeth. He wears a rictus of concentration, his eyes squinted and his nostrils flared. His fists are clenched on his lap. “Are you all right?”

He responds with a distracted grunt.

I turn back to his wing, watching him out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, the moment he thinks I’m looking away, he reaches for the front of his kilt and adjusts himself. And when I touch his wing again? It jerks under my grasp.

“Ticklish?” I ask.

He scowls at the word. “It just…feels like a lot.”

“It might feel like a lot more in a moment, because I think I should sew it up.” I set the blood-stained wet towel down and give him a calm look, even though my heart is fluttering at the thought of having to sew flesh. “You can’t let it just hang open like that. Your wing will be destroyed.”

“My wing isalreadydestroyed.”

“Not necessarily,” I bluff, though I don’t know anything about wings. He might be right, but that doesn’t mean I want to give up hope. “I’ll make very tiny stitches and we can at least try to save it. We’ll clean it daily and rub some salves on it to help with the scarring. Are you all right with that?”

His nostrils flare again, and I can tell by his expression he is very much not all right with it. His wing closes again. “I will think about it?—”

I put a hand on his chest. “No. You’re going to let me do this. There’s no thinking about it. If you wait, it will almost certainly get infected, and if it scabs over like this, your scarring could be much worse.” I know about as much about scars as I do wings, but it sounds good to my ears. “So you’re going to let me tend to you.”

“With a needle?” Nemeth sounds faint. “On my wing?”

I nod. “You’re probably going to want to be numb for this. Where’s that fermented mushroom brew of yours?”

“That’s for cooking.”

I get to my feet. “But it’s alcoholic, right? Today it’ll be for you.” There’s an herb that I’ve experimented with in the past (because I’m a shameless, naughty princess), when I was only allowed a cup or two of wine, one that amplifies the sensation of being drunk. It’s good for sleep, too, which is why I have a supply, but it’ll also help with today.

I’m going to get Nemeth good and drunk so he’ll let me sew up his wing.

Chapter

Forty-Three

It takes three glasses of his mushroom wine and two chewed leaves before Nemeth loosens up. I watch him carefully, and after a while, the shine in his eyes seems to get fuzzy, and his lids get heavy. While I sit next to him, threading a needle, he reaches out for my braid and strokes a claw down it.

“So soft,” he murmurs. “Like petting a kitten.”

My brows go up. “How are you feeling, Nemeth?”

The smile he gives me is lazy and heart-stopping, his eyes closed. “Good. Except my wing. It hurts like dragon shite. But other than that, I feel good.”

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