Page 16 of Bite Sized Bride
A thin, shallow gash runs along the back of his forearm, where the snake’s fangs must have grazed him as he caught it. Two small puncture wounds, already welling with dark, sluggish blood, mar his scarred hide.
He saved me. He took the blow that was meant for me.
He doesn’t seem to notice the wound. He is still focused on me, a low growl rumbling in his chest, his amber eyes swirling with the violent aftermath of his protective rage.
“I’m… I’m all right,” I stammer, holding up my hands to show him I am unharmed. “You saved me.”
He stares at me, the growl slowly subsiding. He looks down at his own arm then, as if just now noticing the injury. He looks at the twin puncture marks with a detached curiosity, then dismisses them, turning his attention back to scanning the trees.
The wound is already beginning to look angry, the skin around it darkening to a bruised purple. The Nyoka’s venom may not be a death sentence for a creature of his size and power, but it is still a poison. It needs to be cleaned.
My fear is a cold, hard knot in my stomach, but something else pushes against it. A sense of debt. A flicker of compassion. He is my captor. He is my protector. And he is wounded because of me.
“Kael,” I say, my voice soft.
He turns his head, his gaze questioning.
I take a deep breath. “Your arm. Let me see.”
I take a tentative step toward him. He immediately goes rigid, his muscles coiling, the low growl returning to his chest. A clear warning.Stay back.
I stop. My heart is hammering. This is a mistake. He is a wild thing, a wounded animal. Approaching him is suicide.
But then I look into his eyes, and beneath the warning, I see the pain. I see the ghost of the warrior who would never show weakness.
I will not let him suffer because of me.
“I want to help,” I say, voice as steady as I can make it. I hold up my empty hands. “The bite. It’s poison. It needs to be cleaned.”
I take another step. He does not move this time, but the growl deepens, a vibration that I feel through the soles of my feet. I am close enough now to feel the heat radiating from his body. I reach out a trembling hand.
His eyes track the movement, every muscle in his massive form screaming with tension. He could break my arm. He could kill me.
My fingers, cold and shaking, make contact with his skin.
He flinches as if burned, a sharp, guttural sound ripping from his throat. But he does not pull away. He stands as still as a mountain, his entire being focused on my touch.
I touched him before, tended to him but only for a short while and I haven’t had the time to explore his form deeply.
His skin is not what I expected. It is a rough, varied landscape. The hardened plates are cool and smooth like stone, but the grey hide between them is surprisingly soft, and incredibly warm. I run my fingers gently over the gash, my touch as light as I can make it.
He shudders, a tremor that runs through his entire body, but he remains still. He is allowing this. He is trusting me.
“We need to wash it,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
I tear a strip of cloth from the hem of my already ruined tunic. I dip it in the cold, clear water of the stream. I turn back to him.
“This will hurt,” I say softly.
I press the wet cloth to the wound. He lets out a sharp hiss of pain, his claws digging into the soft earth at his feet, but he does not move. I gently clean the wound, washing away the blood and the venom. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw tight with a control that must be costing him everything.
When I am done, the wound is clean, but he is a mess. He is covered in the blood of the Nyoka, the grime of the forest, and the dried blood of the dark elf scout. He is a walking testament to the violence that surrounds us.
I look at the stream, then back at him.
“Come,” I say, my voice gaining a sliver of confidence. I tug gently on his uninjured arm. “Wash.”
He looks at me, then at the water, a look of profound confusion on his monstrous face. He does not understand.
