Page 50 of Possess Me at Midnight
No. He can’t die. I won’t let that happen.
The notion of him dying, his green eyes going dark forever, that sardonic smile I’ve grown to anticipate wiped away… My chest constricts. I can barely breathe. When did this infuriating, impossible man become so important that imagining a world without him feels like actual, physical pain?
I press my free hand to my sternum, trying to ease the crushing weight there. I can’t kid myself; my hurt isn’t merely about losing an ally in the Doomsday Brethren’s fight against Mathias. This is my fear about facing a world without Ice—the wizard who challenges me, protects me, sees me as more than Bram’s sister or a political pawn masquerading as a bride.
Fear threatens to overtake me. And a sense of dread. Someday, I’ll have to do without Ice, I know. But not today…
Barreling inside the coach house, I maneuver Ice toward the curtained bed, kicking the door shut behind me. Bram’s waxen face, smothered by the ominous black cloud, ushers in a new level of fear. And hate. Goddamn Mathias for tearing apart my family, my loved ones— Well, I don’t know Ice well enough to love him, of course. But I can’t deny a certain attachment…
Later. I can worry later how to classify Ice’s place in my heart. First, I have to make certain he’ll live.
Finally, I reach the bed and gently lower him to it, shoving the covers out of his way. I tuck my wand back into my pack, then attack Ice’s boots and jumper, tossing them aside, before I set my fingers to his jeans. As I tear them down his thighs, I gasp.
He’s wearing absolutely nothing underneath.
His body is a masterpiece of barely leashed power. I knew that logically, but seeing him totally, unabashedly naked?
I draw in a shaky breath. I stare. His massive shoulders, hard chest, and bulging arms are a road map of maleness with a dusting of dark hair and stark, raised veins that taper to a lean waist, defined by years of hard labor and warfare. The center of his stomach is bisected with a deep groove of muscle, and more hair grows there. Darker. An odd lure to touch him, follow the path straight down to his…
Stop there. Ice could be dying, and I’m gawking as if I’ve never seen a naked man.
You’ve never seen a man like this. So overtly masculine, so overwhelming and huge—in every way.
I blink, turning my gaze away. I should stop now.
But I sneak one more peek before I grab the sheet, along with a downy quilt, with trembling fingers. With a yank, I cover everything below his pectorals. Blood oozes from a wound at the front of his left shoulder. More gushes from a gash on the right side of his ribs. The magical mine’s entry wounds—and they’re both wide open. The edges of the lesions pulse with residual dark magic. The mine isn’t merely burning him; it’s trying to decimate his magic.
“Can you tell me what’s happening inside you? So I know how to heal you.”
He kicks off the blankets, exposing every inch of his body. I try not to look. Truly try. But not staring at the man who intrigues and lures me, makes me sweat and want and wish for the impossible? I can’t stop myself.
“Hot. Inside. Outside.”
“The magical mine still burns? That’s why you were trying to use your freezing ability on yourself?” I ask, throwing my braid over my shoulder.
“Indeed. Felt my insides frying. Fought it off. Directed freeze inward. Took most of my energy.” He grabs my hand and sighs. “Being near you renews me.”
The admission hangs between us, heavy with implication, before I force myself back to the practical matter of his injuries. I smooth my free hand across the dark stubble covering his scalp—and come away with blood.
Gasping, I grab his shoulders and lift him up enough to look at the long line of his spine wrapped in layer after layer of muscle. More blood rolls down his golden skin.
Dashing to the coach house’s bathroom, I find spare towels, turn the cold water in the sink on full blast, and throw two cloths into the basin. The rest I carry to the table beside the bed before retrieving the soaking rags and turning off the water.
Carefully, I lay the first cold, wet cloth across his skin. “Does that hurt?”
He grits his teeth. “No.”
Liar. But what use is there in calling him out?
Instead, I wipe every inch of his torso and back with the wet rags, applying pressure and employing a dash of soap until I’m satisfied the wounds are clean and no longer bleeding. I use my wand to put a little anti-infection spell on the gashes and do my best to close them. My magical medical skills are passable at best, and I curse the fact that my talents lie elsewhere. How dearly I would love to call my Aunt Millie. She, at least, could discern the extent of Ice’s internal injuries. As it is, I have no clue how to check for such things. I will have to rely on Ice to tell me.
With a final wave of my wand, I send the towels back to the bathroom and make the sheets fresh once more.
“Better?” I ask.
Gingerly, he nods. He looks pale and exhausted and utterly depleted. But blessedly alive.
“Internal damage?”
