Page 7 of Kissing Potions and Elves
“I can’t believe I did this,” I mutter under my breath as I scoop handfuls of crushed herbs into a jar and then reach for a shard of glass. “Ow!” I snatch my hand back, clutching it against my chest. Blood wells along the cut.
“What happened?” Lyrion is at my side in an instant. “Let me see.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble, already turning away. “I’ve had worse.”It hurts, but I don’t want him to think I’m pitiful and useless.“It’s just a little—”
“Let. Me. See.” He sounds irritated, but also mildly alarmed.
Reluctantly, I hold out my hand.
Lyrion takes it carefully. His hands are large and strong, and his touch is surprisingly warm as he cradles my palm in his own, inspecting my cut.
“This looks painful, Isobel.” His voice is quiet now, softer, and I’m surprised, given what I’ve done to him, that he’s not yelling or angry. “That’s it. We’re going to the healer,” he declares.
“What? No! We can’t bother him, it’s late.”
“He needs to look at this.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“It’s bleeding.”
“Allcuts bleed. It’s not an emergency.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s the healer’s job to heal people. That’s literally in the title.”
I frown. “I’m not going to wake someone up for a simple injury.”
He looks perplexed. Like the idea that someone wouldn’t demand help just because theycouldis foreign to him.
I point toward the cabinet. “There are bandages in there. Just give me a moment, and I’ll—”
“No.” He points to a nearby stool. “Sit.”
Pursing my lips, I do as he says.
Lyrion grabs a vial of salve and linen strips, and returns to my side. He kneels before me on the herb-dusted floor. His hair falls forward, a sleek curtain of ink-black silk, as he unscrews the salve.
This close, his delicious masculine scent completely surrounds me, heady and potent. My heart is hammering so loudly I wonder if he can hear it with those sharp, Elvish ears of his.
“This might sting a bit,” he warns.
Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt. Instead, it tingles, and feels cool and refreshing as the mildly astringent scent wafts into my nose. His fingers brush over mine as he works, and I swallow hard, trying not to stare at his hands or the way his sleeves pull slightly to reveal the muscles along his forearms as he gently wraps the linen around my cut, like I’m something delicate.
It’s been so long since anyone cared for me like this.
His fingers are long and elegant, like they were made for sketching runes or turning pages of ancient books.
Do all elves have hands like this?
The tips of his fingers skim over the back of my hand as he carefully ties off the bandage. Our heads are bent close together, so close that I can feel the featherlight brush of his breath against my cheek, warm and scented faintly of mint.
I look up to thank him, and freeze, because he’s staring at me again.
His eyes are darker now, their violet color swirling with black, and they drop slowly, hungrily to my mouth.
My breath catches as he leans in. Before I can move or even think to pull away, his warm mouth covers mine as he kisses me again.
His lips press to my own with a slow, burning hunger that curls through my body like fire as he gently coaxes my mouth to open to his. I surrender with a helpless sigh and his tongue strokes against mine as he deepens our kiss.
