Page 27 of Glass and Bone
When I enter, Tobias is sitting in bed with his back against the headboard, writing furiously in a journal. My interest peaks and I wonder what it is he is so passionately writing about. I make a mental note to check later, knowing I shouldn’t read his private thoughts but the desire to know this man outweighs it. I need to know if he truly is the man everyone believes, or if there is something I should be wary about. Does he write about his thoughts and feelings, or is he writing down notes about the impending war? Regardless of the answer, I want to know.
I spent a lot of time sneaking into the council chamber back home to read the notes left after various meetings. It was the only way to get a general understanding of what was going on in the world, even if half the information was indecipherable. I want to learn as much as possible, and the thought of asking Tobias for a tutor is almost embarrassing.
His chest is bare, his sun-kissed skin providing contrast to the light bedding. His hair is floppy and messy, tickling his forehead. His eyebrows are furrowed as he focuses on his journal, his bottom lip jutting out a little in concentration. He barely notices me as I walk in and tentatively step towards the bed. My heart is racing at the thought of climbing under the covers with a stranger. Maybe I should take his offer regarding his sleeping arrangements. The couch does seem quite comfortable.
“Hi.” I whisper and he quickly looks up. His face softens when he looks at me, setting his journal down on his nightstand next to the ever-present glass of wine. He climbs out of the bed and walks around it to me. Tobias’s warm hands rest on my shoulders briefly before sliding the silk dressing gown off my shoulders without breaking eye contact.
I stand, frozen, as it falls to the ground, a chill running down my spine as my flesh is exposed to the cool air. The pale blue nightdress I am wearing is short, barely brushing the tops of my thighs, but I was grateful for the fairly conservative undergarments I was provided. Thin straps hold the nightdress onto my shoulders, and I feel as if they are going to break off in any second under Tobias’s stare.
“I need to re-bandage your wounds.” He says softly before stepping away from me and to the couch where a small basket sits. I exhale loudly, my heart pounding. He sits down, his shorts riding up his thighs, revealing a light dusting of golden hair. He motions for me to come over, so I slowly walk up to him with my nails biting into the flesh of my palms. He’s digging in the basket, and I look up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths. He’s just rebandaging your wounds.
Relax.
His fingers are warm when they brush my thigh, and I stifle a flinch. I look down as he’s rubbing some sort of ointment over the stitches. It hurts, but not nearly as bad as it did this morning. The ointment is thick and white, the scent of mint and poppy tickling my nostrils.
“It’s healing well, the stitches should be ready to come out soon.” He says as he gently wipes off the excess ointment with a damp towel.
“That’s good.” I whisper. He’s bent down, his head near my stomach as he leans forward on the couch. He takes gauze and some medical tape and begins wrapping it around my upper thigh. His fingers lightly graze my backside and I once again fight against the urge to flinch.
Every time his skin touches mine, electricity sparks through my veins as if he’s shocking me. I look down at him and lift my hand, gently brushing it through his hair that’s glowing in the candlelight. It looks more golden right now, soft and silky, flopping to the side. He stills after he finishes wrapping my leg and looks up at me. My hand drops back to my side, and he smiles. I bite my bottom lip in embarrassment that I just touched his hair, but his eyes aren’t sending me the message that he didn’t like it. They are narrowed slightly, but not in anger.
“Any others that need it?” He asks, his voice a little husky, and I shrug. I truly don’t know. There were quite a few bandages that floated up to the surface of the bath, but the worst wounds were the one on my thigh and my forehead. He grabs either side of my waist, his fingers warming the silk between us, and leans forward to plant a gentle kiss on my stomach before standing.
I have to angle my head up to look at him, his blue eyes boring into mine. His lips part slightly, his breath gently fanning across my face. My eyes flit to his lips briefly before returning to his eyes. Part of me wants to kiss him, the other part wants to run as far and as fast I can. He slowly lifts his hand and I think he’s going to cup my cheek, but he doesn’t. He gently pulls away hair that is caught on the scab on my forehead before breaking eye contact and bending down, grabbing the ointment again.
“I hope this doesn’t scar your pretty face.” He whispers, as he rights himself again. I smile and close my eyes as he gently dabs the cream onto my skin. This one doesn’t burn at all anymore, and I am feeling more than grateful that I am healing quickly.
“I don’t mind.” I reply honestly. I have enough scars on my body, another wouldn’t be a big deal.
“I do.” I open my eyes. He sets the ointment down and grabs a small bandage, placing it right over my wound. When he’s done, he wipes his fingers on the towel and places everything back into the basket methodically. When Tobias straightens, he’s holding another glass of nectar, this one smaller.
“Do I need it?” I ask as I take the cold glass from him. I wonder which part of it keeps it cold? Not that I’m complaining, it feels pretty good on my continuously scratchy throat.
“That's up to you, but if you are feeling any bit of discomfort, this might help.” I nod and take a sip.
I still have cramping in my lower abdomen and a sharp pulsing between my legs slowly growing. As always, the nectar is syrupy and sweet, but delicious. I finish the glass and he takes it from me gently, his fingers brushing mine. I expect him to step away, but he maintains the mere inches between us. After he sets the glass on the coffee table, his hands come up to gently cup my face. He looks worried, his icy blues deepening into gray.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my hands lifting to gently wrap around his wrists. His wrists are a lot larger than I expect, my fingers aren’t long enough to encircle them completely and I almost laugh at the thickness, but I don’t. His grip is soft, but firm, commanding as his eyes search mine.
“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” His voice is strained, as if he is fighting some emotion, which fills my brain with a mixture of confusion and surprise. I smile and lean into his palms, relishing in the feel of his skin against mine.
“I’m okay, now. Really. I’m healing quickly and I already feel better, although that might be all the wine I drank.” I laugh softly and his lips press into a thin line.
“Look, about Theo,” He starts, but I open my mouth to cut him off.
“Don’t think about that.” I plead.
“I don’t like it, Elaenor.” He says through gritted teeth.
“What do you want me to do about it?” I ask. My hands fall from his wrists, and he drops his away from my face. “I told him my name was Nora, it only makes sense that is what he calls me. If it bothers you so much, tell him to stop. Or you can call me Nora, too.” I offer with a shrug, and he rubs his face. “The only people who have ever called me Nora are my mother andoccasionallymy ladies back home. I was trying to hide my identity. I was worried about my safety.” I knew that would reel him back in, or at least I hoped. He drops his hands from where they were tangling in his hair and lightly cups my face again.
“I don’t want to call you Nora. You are Elaenor, and you aremine.” I nod, my breath quickening with the way he said mine. His eyes flick to my lips briefly and I quickly wet them.He’s going to kiss me.
He brings his lips down to mine, demanding, wanting. I kiss him back, bringing my hands up to his chest and then to his face. Something delicious and warm fills my core and I find myself wanting more. Is this a genuine desire, or just a bodily reaction? I have no idea, but I don’t care. I want this. I want him to keep kissing me. To make me feel wanted.
He pulls back, his breath fanning over my lips. I pout slightly, not wanting the kiss to end.
“I don’t want you to talk to him or have anything to do with him.”
