Page 46 of WarBride

“On that we can certainly agree,” I reply, keeping my voice bright and hoping no telltale quaver betrays the truth of my churning emotions. “So tell me, was it as easy as you made it seem? Or were you obliged to exert yourself somewhat?”

His eyebrow tips. “You think that was easy?”

“Oh, quite,” I answer and wave to indicate the bleeding cut on his upper arm. It looks rather deep and strangely dark around the edges. I remember too well when Lurodos ripped Taar’s own knife out of his side and slashed back, the blade still dripping with his own blackened blood. The memory makes my stomach knot, but I say only, “No doubt this was all for show. To keep the bloodthirsty masses invested. Most effectively managed, I must say.”

He turns, grimacing as he looks down at the wound. A shudder ripples through him, as though the pain is only just hitting him. Without a word he takes the bottle of spirits, uncorks it, and moves to pour it directly onto the cut.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim.

He flashes me a narrow look. “The wound must be cleansed.”

“By sloshing an entire bottle all over it? What a waste!”

Another one of those eyebrow tilts. “If the worst sin I commit this day is to waste a bottle of Ruvaen’s private store, I won’t be spending any breath on penance prayers.”

“Nonetheless.” I reach out, fingers beckoning. “Let me do a proper job of it. You might as well make use of an extra pair of hands while you have them, right?”

He says nothing, only looks at me, his expression inscrutable. But when I grip the neck of the bottle, he relents. Pulling it from his grasp, I perch on the edge of the bed beside him . . . and am suddenly very aware of everything that took place between us the last time I sat here. When he pushed me into those soft blankets. When he knelt between my legs. When he hiked my hips forward, drawing me to his hungry mouth.

Oh gods. I was just saved from death, from worse than death. How can my mind still be so fixated on all the wrong things?

With a little shake of my head, I splash spirits into one of those linen napkins and set to work cleaning the wound with careful dabs. Concentrating on the task, refusing to let my mind wander. I pull out bits of dirt and debris and gently prod the torn flesh. “It will probably need stitches.”

He grunts. An agreement, I think.

“This is your right arm,” I point out.

“Yes.”

“But you’re still going to try to stitch it up lefthanded, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t look at me. His attention is apparently fixed on the dancing fire. “I’m quite used to tending my own wounds.”

I sniff and continue to clean the blood from his skin. “While my mother permitted me to study almost no useful skills growing up, she did insist I learn to make small, precise stitches.”

His eyes flick sideways, catching mine. “I am not a tapestry.”

“Oh, I was never talented enough to be allowed anywhere near the tapestries. No, no, simple, solid mending work. That’s what I’m good for and little else.” I tap his massive bicep. “This is nothing more than a ripped seam. I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

Taar does not answer at first. His gaze holds mine for a count of ten breaths, then returns to the fire, his brow pulled into a tight knot. Finally he says, “You’ll likely find a kit in that chest over there.”

I look where he indicates and see a small black chest sitting atop a larger one between two of the tent poles. Investigation soon reveals a compact medical kit. Not something I would expect to find among a fae prince’s supplies. I wonder if Ruvaen will mind the way we’ve helped ourselves to his things. That being said, he’s been helping himself to the spoils of my kingdom these last many years; I won’t spare him any sympathy.

Returning to Taar’s side, I open the kit and inspect the contents. “I would have thought the fae could simply glamour their wounds away,” I muse, selecting a curved needle and some stout black thread.

“They do,” he replies. “But glamours won’t stop them from bleeding. So, while you will never see a fae with scars or missing limbs, that doesn’t mean they aren’t right in front of you, hidden to the naked eye. Ruvaen himself does not look the way he presents. In fact I suspect the real Ruvaen is something quite different.”

“Really?” I thread the needle, my fingers trembling rather more than I like. “I should have known none of his beauty was real.”

“You think Ruvaen is beautiful?”

“Of course. All you fae are.”

“But I am not fae.”

I grit my teeth, refusing to look at him, refusing to let him goad me into complimenting his outrageous good looks. No doubt he’s perfectly aware of the effect he has on women just by walking into the room. Fae or not, he’s probably glamoured from head to toe. It’s the only explanation.

Knotting the end of the thread, I hold the curved needle up to the light and face him. “Ready?”

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