Page 61 of Forged in Fire
I shake my head, letting water wash away the ridiculous thoughts. Things are complicated enough without analyzing feelings I don’t understand for a man I barely know.
I finish washing quickly, dry off, and wrap myself in a robe I find behind the door before padding back to the main room. I don’t like the way I’m feeling now… empty, confused, and longing for something I don’t understand.
I settle onto the bed, exhaustion winning over the restless energy that’s been driving me for days.
Sleep comes easier than expected, pulling me under into dreamless darkness.
Things will probably make more sense if I get some rest.
Chapter 18
Iris
I wake to the sound of running water and quiet cursing from the bathroom. It’s pitch black outside. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure how long I’ve been asleep.
Then I hear Riven’s voice, low and frustrated: “Dammit.”
I’m on my feet before thinking it through, crossing to the bathroom door. It’s slightly ajar, steam escaping around the edges.
“Riven? You okay?”
More cursing, followed by the unmistakable sound of something hitting the floor.
Concern overrides any consideration of privacy. I push the door open and step inside.
The sight that greets me stops every rational thought in its tracks.
Riven stands in front of the mirror, fresh from the shower, water still beading on bronze skin stretched over lean muscle.Dark hair slicks back from sharp features, and when he turns toward me, I get a view that makes my mouth go dry.
He’s magnificent. Controlled power and dangerous grace, bearing a roadmap of scars that highlight rather than mar his beauty. His chest is broad, with just a smattering of dark hair that trails down his sculpted torso and abs before disappearing beneath the top of the towel around his lean waist. But it’s the vulnerability in his expression that undoes me—raw frustration and something that might be embarrassment.
“Iris.” His voice is gruff. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What’s wrong?” I force myself to focus on his face instead of letting my gaze wander lower. “Are you hurt?”
He gestures to his left arm, where fresh bandages are half-applied and clearly not cooperating. “Trying to rewrap this. Can’t reach the angle properly.”
The wound from earlier that I’d cleaned and bandaged this morning. Simple enough fix, but awkward to manage single-handed.
“Here.” I move closer before he can protest, reaching for the medical supplies scattered on the counter. “Let me.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up and let me help.”
He goes still as I approach, tension almost tangible. I can smell the soap on his skin. Can see the careful control he’s exercising to keep perfectly still while I work.
He rests a hip against the edge of the basin, tilting slightly so I can reach more easily. I hadn’t realized how tall he is. And broad. And strong. Hard—
Fuck, Iris. Stop it!
I focus on his arm, ignoring how firm his bicep is when I touch it. The wound looks clean, edges pink, the earlier signs of inflammation gone. I examine the area carefully, checking for any signs of infection.
“Looks good,” I murmur, dabbing antiseptic on a clean cloth. “Healing well.”
He doesn’t flinch when I clean the area, doesn’t make a sound, even though I can see his muscles tense slightly. He’s learned to endure discomfort without complaint.
I reach for the fresh bandages, hyperaware of every point where my fingers brush his skin. He’s warm—warmer than human normal, dragon heat radiating from him.
