Page 4 of Dragons' Mate
Putting a hand on Kit’s skin, Quinton fed a tendril of magic into the wound.
Kit swore at healing’s burning pain, shoving his hand away with surprising strength. "Don’t ever do that without asking again.”
"Really?" Quinton cocked a brow. "Of everything that just happened,that'swhat you find most offensive?”
He examined his handiwork, bracing for the sight of smooth skin that hid his claim. The wound had closed, but instead of disappearing, the bite mark remained there, now a puckered slightly silver scar. That was unexpected.
Kit’s face was unreadable as she ran her finger over the mark. "That was the one part of this whole evening that I actually understand,” she confessed with equal parts resignation and annoyance.
She motioned for him to turn his back to her while she cleaned herself the rest of the way. Quinton obliged, wisely not pointing out the absurdness of modesty at this point. The bed creaked behind him as Kit rose to her feet.
“And what happened to your resolve about not healing humans anymore?” she asked into his back. “I’m certain I heard you say something idiotic to that effect after Cordelia died."
He crossed his arms. "My resolve bowed to the reality of being near a human who baits injury with her every breath.”
"Did you just blamemefor what happened?” Kit’s voice rose with incredulity.
“So you didn’t lunge at me first?” The tips of Quinton’s scales turned a shade of irritated red. He was a predator. There was only so much he could do when a little mortal bit of prey was actively baiting a hunt. “Was it someone else who’d—”
"-I didn't say that." Her words were clipped. The floorboards creaked as Kit moved about the small room to dig out fresh clothes. By the time Quinton had enough with staring at the door and turned around, she was already buttoning up a drab gray dress. The garment hugged her curves deliciously despite having been tailored for someone else.
Lips pursed, Kit focused on the last of the buttons. "I… I don't know what happened,” she said finally, not looking at him. “I couldn’t think straight. Not about anything beyond, well, you were there. You know."
He did.
Quinton sighed. "It was a frenzy. A primal drive to fight or rut. It's a dragon thing. So no, don't ask me why you felt it. I have no idea. Nor do I know why I saw flashes of silver dancing in your eyes as I took you."
“There was magic in my eyes?” Kit wobbled slightly as she set the wash basin and pitcher of water back atop the dresser.
Quinton barely held himself back from grabbing her elbow. “Yes.”
Kit rubbed her face. "And this primal frenzy thing, is it going to happen again?"
"I don't know. Probably."
"How often?"
"I don't know."
“Well, for how long are these randomrut-me-nowinstincts going to hijack my common sense?”
“I don’t—” Quinton cut off as Kit twisted around and jabbed a finger into the middle of his chest.
“Don’t you dare say you don’t know,” she snapped at him. “Whatdoyou know?"
That I’m an asshole who’s just filled a jagged hole in my soul by ripping off a piece of yours.
"That you ask too many questions." Spinning on his heel, Quinton plucked his discarded shirt from the floor, then wadded it back up for disposal. The garment was beyond saving and he’d not thought to bring extra clothes along. His cloak would have to do for the ride back and then some. If he and Kit would be infiltrating the trials, they had to get her into the pledge ball unnoticed first. A ball that was to take place in the Massa’eve palace, ruled over by the very same king who ordered Kit dead. To top it off, they had about eighteen hours to accomplish it all.
Brilliant.
Muttering a string of curses, Quinton made use of the wadded up shirt to wipe himself down. Most of the blood on him was from the two guards he’d killed but some still trickled from the arrow he’d taken. The shot had been shallow and sloppy, and if Quinton hadn’t already killed the guards he’d have sent them on their way just for their drunken incompetence.
“Why are you rubbing blood all over your chest?” Kit demanded, her lip curling in disapproval as she surveyed Quinton’s efforts. Shaking her head, she ripped a clean swath of cloth from the destroyed sheet and pointed to the dresser. “Sit.”
“I’ve got it.” Quinton said, but did as he was told.
Pouring clean water over the cloth, Kit cleaned the wound with a gentleness that was at odds with her irritated expression.
