Page 43 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
They hurried forward, and Tsumiko’s soul clenched in dismay. Now that Argent had reverted to a man’s form, it was easier to see how badly he was injured. And that he was in danger of bleeding out.
TWENTY FIVE
Bloody Bindings
Argent stirred and stilled, wincing at the unfamiliar spike of pain across his senses. He knew well the fizzing warnings and dreadful weight of disobedience that accompanied his bond; its punishment ranged from dull to debilitating. But this wasphysicalpain. How long had it been? A century or two, surely, since a mistress’s husband made free with whip or blade in retaliation for some slight—real or imagined.
Wounded, but surrounded by familiar scents, Michael’s in the foreground. So he was safe in the ward’s keeping. Which meant the tightness around his abdomen and chest weren’t bonds, but bandages.
The mild droning that had woken Argent resolved into a voice. “Amaranthine have both strength and longevity, but therein lies an inherent weakness, at least by human standards.”
Argent’s focus sharpened. Lecture had always been Michael’s way of calming the distraught, as if the flow of information could soothe away troubles.
“Injuries like these are slow to heal; bones take months to knit, and open wounds need regular cleansing and careful binding.” A subtle tension entered his tones. “If secrecy weren’t of greater importance, I would call for an Amaranthine healer. But Sansa has learned both nursing and an herbalist’s lore, and many of the remedies do as well for one species as the other.”
“Oh.”
The single syllable identified Michael’s audience, and Argent’s focus swung to the opposite side of the room with dizzying speed. His mistress. Tsumiko. And she was unhappy. With him? Warnings buzzed through their bond, hinting at punishment.
“Our researchers point to our similar biology as proof that the human and inhuman races derived from a single source. We’re similar despite our differences, which allows for hybrids.”
A low grunt from the corner. Gingko.
Michael rambled on. “Many things take longer for the Amaranthine—maturation, gestation, oh, and sleep. They can go without for long periods, only to retreat into slumber for days once they reach the point of exhaustion.”
“Like now?” Tsumiko asked.
“Don’t let Dad fool you,” came a gruff mutter. “He’s been awake for a bit.”
The mattress dipped, pinning the blankets at Argent’s thigh. He fought the weight of his eyelids, which suggested he’d been given a heavy dose of Huddlebud nectar. Where had Sansa gotten her hands on something so potent?
“Argent?”
Tsumiko leaned over him, eyes too wide, face too pale, scent spiced by fear. He used to relish the underlying trepidation in a mistress’s manner, but Tsumiko’s made a shambles of old ways. This was not fearofhim, but fearforhim. How backward.
Argent grabbed for her, but the unsteady swipe of claws only netted him a handful of hair. Using it to tug her closer, he caught at her with his other hand, but the twisting motion sent fresh pain lancing across his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. His hiss of protest turned into a low whine.
“Let him,” urged Michael. “Tending will help along the mending process and distract him from the pain.”
Tsumiko asked, “Won’t he be more susceptible to addiction like this?”
“Yes.” Michael’s calm slipped slightly. “But what else can we do?”
The pleading edge set Argent’s stomach roiling. As manager of Stately House, he was responsible for maintaining peace for all who lived here. If Michael was unhappy, Argent was derelict in his duties. Because it was Michael’sjobto be happy. Enough for all of them.
“Bring Sansa,” Michael said softly, and the door opened and closed.
Argent struggled against the nectar’s muddling, reviewing the events that had landed him in bed. Nona was a clever grasper. Her ascension to the Five during the Emergence hadn’t surprised him, but he’d enjoyed reminding the nine-tail that even at her best, he was better. He’d driven her off, protected their home, earned preening and praise and pampering alike.
He pulled at Tsumiko again, growling in frustration when she extricated herself and stepped out of reach. She returned with one of Sansa’s bitter teas and held a spoon to his lips. “Take a few sips,” she whispered.
He would have resisted if not for his need to obey. With a half-hearted glare, he submitted to the dose. Gingko returned with Sansa, whose drawn face sent a pang through Argent’s conscience. Was she putting too much on herself again? But he couldn’t detect any injury or ailment.
Tsumiko carried away the cup, and when she returned, he plucked at her sleeve. She was still too far away. Hadn’t he earned some comfort? He craved closeness, assurance, the press of warm skin, and perhaps even a taste of …. Argent drew up short with a languid blink. How much nectar had they given him? Didn’t they know the stories? But they were reavers. Of course they knew.
Instincts on the rise. Inhibitions at low ebb. In the old days, he could have simply devoured her and been done. Instead, he was doomed to deepening humiliation. He twisted away, only to pull at wounds that seeped and stung.
“Argent, you’ll hurt yourself,” protested Tsumiko.
