Page 40 of The Demon's Discovery
“Are you alright, Greta?” Vassago asked, eyebrows drawn in concern.
“I’m fine,” I assured him, but I caught myself rubbing at my shoulder again as he watched. It was always achy, always sore, but I was rubbing at it more and more without even meaning to. The itchiness had settled in deep, flaring as a burn more in the last several days than in most previous years combined.
“May I take a look?” he asked. “Please. I can’t stand seeing you suffer like this.”
I flushed hot. It was only a shoulder, but it was way more skin than we’d shared with one another. An argument formed on my tongue, but I stopped it. He was concerned, and if I was being honest, I desperately wanted some relief from the ache. If Vassago could help, I would gratefully take his aid. “Alright.”
He set his plate on the sofa and crossed to where he could settle in behind me, his knees to either side of my head. I held my breath as he adjusted the collar of my shirt so he could open it more at the back. “Can you lean forward, please? Perhaps undo the top few buttons?”
I complied, and his fingers pulled at the shirt, the collar now settled somewhere under my shoulder blades. His fingers probed at the tight muscles with a gentle touch until he located a knot. His thumbs took up the work then, pressing in and under so that it made a slight crunching noise and a borderline painful sensation as he attempted to work it out.
All at once, the unpleasant sensation intensified. “Vassago?” I braced against the sudden discomfort.
“There are some darker spots here,” he muttered, still working at the knot.
He probed a bit more and the pain flared. “Stop.” The word came out as a gasp, and his fingers were instantly removed.
“What’s wrong?” Vassago asked, hands roaming along my back, panic in his tone. “Have I hurt you?”
I shook my head, looking over my shoulder at him. I lifted my own hand, probing around to see if I could relieve the burn. “It’s not you, there’s a—” I sucked my breath in through my teeth as the burn became sharp, hot, like a knife at the edge of my shoulder blades where they ran near my spine. I tried to describe it, but the pain stole my breath. “It’s like the itch I get sometimes but painful.”
“Hold still if you can, Little Dragonfly. Let me see.” His breath puffed against my skin as he leaned in close. I was foldedin half, knees to my chest in a defensive posture. He touched something that sent an electric shock down my spine, and I whimpered.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Whatever’s under the skin here”—he traced a loose oval around the region that hurt, all along that inside edge of my shoulder blade on both sides—“doesn’t look like an infection, but there’s discoloration. Bruising maybe. Nothing visible to cause that response though.” I frowned. I had no idea about that, I’d never seen anything odd when I looked in the mirrors at the Belette manor, but mine were the older, cloudy castoffs. “This isn’t quite enough to get a good look, Dragonfly. Can we perhaps pull your shirt up instead?”
“I suppose.” I swallowed thickly, nerves strung tight at the thought of him seeing my whole back. I clutched the book to my middle as I bent forward over my knees.
His warm touch drifted across my skin as he pulled my shirt up from the hem with both hands. I braced when the pads of his thumbs crossed one of the raised areas that dotted my back, then another. The slow ascent of the fabric stopped, and a harsh breath left him.
“Greta.” There was both empathy and rage in his voice. The fabric around my ribs tightened as he fisted it. Mist crept over my skin, preceding his touch. His warm hands mapped the patchwork of scars along my back. I had been braced against his exploration, but found myself melting into it after a moment, despite the low rumble of a growl in his chest and the heat of his body as he leaned as close as possible to mine.
“Who did this to you, Greta? I must know who has requested a slow, painful death by marking you in such a way. Was this Henrik’s doing?” He spat the words darkly, jaw tightly clenched.
“Lara.” Henrik had never approved of her methods, but he’d also never taken any actions to stop her. I closed my eyes, picturing her favorite punishment tools. The metal hairbrushwith stiff boar bristles that never failed to create more knots in my curls than it helped. Any kind of stick she could find nearby. A broken spoke from the rails on my old iron headboard was her favorite though. It left the best marks.
“For what purpose would she harm you in such a way? There’s nothing you could have done to deserve this.Nothing.” I turned my head and found him practically vibrating with rage. His eyes were bright rubies, sharp fangs had extended, and heat poured from him in a heady wave. The smoky mist crawled along the edges of his form, shifting in a decidedly agitated way.
“Lara said she was teaching me.”
He snarled a curse in a language I didn’t understand.
“These are all old. She hasn’t lifted a hand to me in several years. Not since I got taller than her and bold enough to stop her hand mid swing. I didn’t know any better as a child.”
He roared, and there was the sound of fabric tearing, followed by a grunt and a cool breeze over my entire back. “She will pay for this, Little Dragonfly. A hundred times over if I plan it right.” He sounded distant, far too calm as he pushed the torn halves open, leaving them to dangle at my sides. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined your shirt. I’ll get you another.”
I said nothing as he mapped every inch of my skin, his breath warm as he leaned close to inspect my flesh. I shivered under the contrast of his cool mist and heated touch and ached for reasons that seemed wholly inappropriate to what was happening.
It worried me how much I wanted him to punish her for what she’d done. It made me no better than them. It was concerning how I melted under the suggestion of someone being offended by my mistreatment. That I knew I would watch it happen and feel nothing but satisfaction.
But still, I said nothing.
“It looks like deep bruising,” he said finally. “Perhaps from your worrying at it. But I want someone with more knowledgeto examine it very soon. You need to be able to shift, to stone sleep. I need you to not be in pain. It’s gone on far too long. I will take you wherever we need to go so you can get well, Greta. Anywhere.”
“Thank you,” I said, perilously close to tears. I found myself overwhelmed, particularly by his use ofwe. He was including himself in my problems, my life, and I strangely had less than no objections about that.
The mist retreated, and after gently brushing the space right between my shoulder blades—it was so brief I couldn’t tell if it was fingers or his lips, though either had made me shiver in the best way—Vassago got to his feet and stalked across the room to a small cabinet. He retrieved several tins of salve, dropping one twice in his rush to get them. With a swear, he settled behind me again.
“I’m going to try these for now,” he explained. “My brother made them for me. But I need you to tell me when you’re getting the pains. Every time. Please.”
