Page 47 of WarBride

He turns, presenting his wounded arm. His skin shivers slightly when I pinch the torn flesh together with my left hand. I can’t tell if it’s from pain or . . . something else. And I won’t think about that. Not while this task needs doing. The cut is straight enough, a neat slash right across the bicep, a good four inches long. I start in the middle and work out, grimacing as I press that sharp tip through layers of skin and muscle tissue. It’s such an unpleasant sensation, nothing at all like mending a torn seam, despite my bravado.

Taar doesn’t wince. His jaw tightens slightly, but otherwise he offers no indications of pain. He’s probably used to it. Up close to him like this, I cannot help noticing all over again the numerous scars riddling his body. I find myself wanting to explore them—to run my fingers along their various textures and shapes. To feel the way they pull across his hard muscles. Even now, covered in mud and blood though he is, I wonder what it might be like to let my tongue slide along those ridges and . . .

“You’re trembling,zylnala.”

Suddenly aware of his gaze upon me, I glance up. He’s so close, I could swear I feel the air stirred by his eyelashes. He’s not watching my work; he’s watching me. Those dark eyes of his take me in slowly, reading my face, searching for secrets. But surely he cannot read my mind. Can he?

“Stop,” I say, my voice snappish. “Stop looking at me. You make me nervous.”

His gaze drops at last to my stitches. They’re neat enough, tight and strong. “Is this your first time?” he asks. “Stitching up a man, I mean.”

Heat burns up my neck. Oh gods, I’m not a blusher. So why does he have to bring out this pathetic side of me? “We all start somewhere,” I answer shortly, concentrating intently on my work. He continues watching as I plunge that needle through his flesh and yank the thread taut. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable finding a . . . a fixed point to focus on?” I suggest. “You know, to distract yourself from the pain?”

His mouth quirks slightly. “You are distraction enough.”

I freeze, fingers poised in midair.

“That is,” he continues, his voice low and contemplative, “your face is incredibly expressive. I can watch your thoughts playing through your eyes, one after the other.”

And when I was thinking just now about licking his chest? Did he catch that one?

I bite my lips hard and simply breathe for some seconds. Somewhere in the turmoil of my soul, I must find a ledge of calm. Steeling my spine, I get back to work. Slow, precise. There’s a strange darkness on the edges of his skin that I don’t understand. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was rot. But surely a wound like this wouldn’t begin to fester so quickly?

“That was really horrible, you know,” I say at last, the words slipping softly through my lips.

“Yes,” he says, understanding my meaning. “Deathmatches are never a pretty sight.”

“I’m glad you killed him.”

“As am I.”

“But . . .”

“I understand.”

We are silent again. I’m relieved that I don’t have to try to explain myself, to rationalize the low hum of horror which sitsin my gut at the death of that monster. A death which feels so . . . pointless. So random, so without reason. So brutal when performed for the sake of pure spectacle. And I was a part of that spectacle: a trophy, an object. The whole situation makes me sick.

At last Taar breaks the silence. “Were you worried for me,zylnala?” he asks softly.

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Because an image flashes through my head: that terrible moment when Lurodos dragged Taar off the unicorn and slammed him into the dirt. That moment when I believed he was dead. Such a surge of dread had come over me then, not for myself and what his death would mean for me, but . . . but forhim.Because I did not want him to die. Not there. Not then. Not in front of that cheering mob.

This is wrong. He is a means to an end, nothing more. Not to mention the cause of my current peril in the first place! I cannot forget that little detail. Perhaps this is some fae trickery, manipulating me into seeing him as my rescuer, as some sort of hero. Perhaps it is a spell that makes me want to grab him, to pull him down on top of me until I’m crushed into the bed while he suffocates me with kisses.

I glance up and find myself trapped in his dark gaze. Am I really so transparent? Can he read my thoughts even now?

Dropping the needle and thread, leaving them to dangle from his flesh, I quickly push to my feet and back away. “There!” I declare. “That’s done.”

He looks down at his arm. “You didn’t tie it off.”

“You can manage that for yourself. Besides, it’s time we got going. We must find my sister.” The words have no sooner left my mouth when all the warmth in my body seems to vanish, and I’m flooded with ice. Aurae! While I’ve been sitting here, admiring this massive hunk of godlike manliness, Aurae is out there in the hands of some monster. I clench my fists. “There’sno time to waste. Do you have any idea where she was taken? Do you know where to look?”

Unlike my own face apparently, Taar’s expression is unreadable. Using his left hand, he deftly ties off the dangling thread and snaps the needle free. Then he rises from the bed, and the light from the fire shifts, casting his features in darkness. He comes toward me, one step, then another. I’m tempted to back away but stand my ground, and soon he is close enough to touch me. But doesn’t. He simply looks at me, long and hard.

“I will help you find your sister, even as I vowed,” he says. “But you may not like what we discover.”

I nod once and hold his gaze. “I need to know. And then I need to get her out.”

“Whoever bought her might not be willing to part with her. Not without a price.”

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