Page 24 of Dragons' Bride
Cyril shook his head and fetched the soap and washcloths the seamen had delivered along with the tub. The pair of them gently peeled off Kit’s clothes, mindful of the bouquet of new bruises now covering her sides, back, and arms. Hauck longed to keep the girl cradled against his chest, but she needed more than his body could give her just now, which bothered him irrationally, but was the truth.
He carried Kit to the warm tub, slowly lowering her inside. That glazed look on her was only getting worse, and she jerked with a surprised yelp when the salt water touched her raw hand.
"So you are alive under all the hurt after all," Hauck said, stroking her back and shoulders. He wished he could take her pain away, but had to settle for offering what comfort his touch could bring. On the other side of the tub, Cyril had soaped up a washcloth and started scrubbing Kit’s shoulders gently. When he made the water rise to rinse off the suds, Kit yelped again.
“That’s a good trick, too,” she said.
Cyril raised a brow. "That is not how I typically think of my magic.”
Kit flinched.
Cyril cursed under his breath and ran a thumb over her cheek. "Easy, nymph. It was a joke.” He glanced up to Hauck. “What the rutting hell did he do to her?"
"I only saw the last part, but I imagine you can fill in the blanks.”
Cyril ran his washcloth over Kit’s body in a thinly veiled attempt to probe her joints and ribs.
"I'm not injured," Kit insisted, as if the males couldn’t see the hands she wouldn’t lower into the water. Hauck wished she didn’t feel she had to put up a brave front in front of them, but that kind of trust would be a long time coming.
Cyril finished his inspection, his scales rising to match the tight set of his mouth, and pulled out her foot to wash.
Kit tried to pull it back. “Also, I can wash myself,” Kit argued, making a pathetic grab for the washcloth. With the state her hands were in, Hauck didn’t think she’d have been happy if she’d managed to capture the object.
“You can,” Cyril agreed. “But I’d like to do it. Lean your head forward.”
Once Kit complied, Hauck let out her braid and Cyril brought up more water to douse her hair, giving Hauck free rein to work the soap into the thick strands. Kit let out a soft moan as his hands massaged her scalp, her pleasure rippling through Hauck and warming the thing inside him that had gone cold at Lola’s death. He pressed his fingers into the base of her neck, seeing what other sounds he could tease out.
They just finished rinsing Kit’s hair when the door to the cabin opened again. Though Hauck had his back to the entry, he easily recognized the sound of Tavias’s sure steps and Quinton’s near silent ones. Then they came into Hauck’s line of sight and he barely held in a snort. Judging by the torn clothes and bloodied faces, Tavias had continued the brawl Hauck had started. How Quinton chose to train Kit wasn’t a matter for pack discipline, but as far as a disagreement between brothers’, fists and talons were fair game.
Cyril surveyed both brothers. “That was short.”
Tavias wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. “We are approaching the rift and Dane politely kicked us off deck.” He threw Quinton a dark look.
Quinton crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, ignoring the rest of the pack. Everything about his body said he’d rather be elsewhere. Judging by Kit’s scowl, she wouldn’t mind Quinton’s disappearance either.
Cyril’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He jerked his chin toward Quinton. “Heal her palms.”
“No.”
“Not necessary.”
Kit and Quinton spoke at the same time.
“That wasn’t a request.” Cyril didn’t raise his voice, but the steel of command wove through every word and the cabin filled with the scent of his dominance. Hauck felt a small jerk inside his chest, where the pack’s bond was rooted. Unlike Tavias, Cyril rarely pulled rank even when he was Ettienne’s heir apparent, but when he did, even Hauck listened.
Jaw tight, Quinton pushed away from the wall and stalked toward Kit, his displeasure saturating every step. He grabbed Kit’s wrist and laid his palm flat against hers. Hauck could see Kit’s struggle to keep from jerking her hand away – though perhaps the struggle was to do just that, and Quinton was simply preventing the escape. Stars. Whatever happened between them last night went a great deal beyond the sounds Hauck had enjoyed hearing.
Bloody hell. Why could nothing ever be simple when it came to Kit? He’d truly thought the turnip had succeeded where all others had failed, had pierced through Quinton’s darkness to the male he once was. Stars knew she had a habit of turning everything upside down. Clearly, things had not gone as planned and now the pair’s sharp animosity was spiking through the room.
Quinton’s silver magic rippled over his arms. A great deal more than necessary to heal a bit of skin.
Hauck truly liked it better whenhewas the juvenile one of the group.
Kit went rigid, her eyes glistening. No sound escaped her clamped lips though.
Hauck pulled her closer against his chest, offering the comfort of his body, and he could see Cyril rubbing soothing circles over her knee.
Quinton released Kit’s fully healed hand a heartbeat later, which was a great deal faster than he usually took to mend small wounds. Probably because he’d channeled enough magic into the task to make a small horse glow in the dark. Dropping Kit’s wrist unceremoniously, he repeated the procedure on her other side, then stepped away as if retreating from a venomous snake. “It’s done. Is everyone bloody satisfied?”
