Page 118 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“Ouuu,Dawson.” Solflara snickered.
“Shove it,” Alaire snapped, sealing off their connection.
She hissed through her teeth as she assessed the wound. “That looks nasty.”
“Your bedside manner needs work,” he said tightly.
“Hold still.” Alaire poured alcohol onto a cloth and pressed it to his side.
He sucked in a breath, muscles tensing under her touch.
She dropped to her knees between his legs for better access—immediately realizing her mistake.
This is a terrible idea.
“So,” she said, trying to ignore how the position put her eye level with that defined V disappearing beneath his waistband, “are you going to tell me what happened, or make me guess?”
“It’s classified,” Dawson replied, his voice strained.
“Of course it is.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t tell anyone, you know.”
“Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t.”
Disappointment twisted her gut. But she couldn’t deny the tension in his neck and dark circles under his eyes. The weight he carried was plain to see when he wasn’t hiding behind that perfected mask of indifference. All she was doing was adding to it.
“Dawson,” she began, fingers tightening on her supplies. “I—about before… I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was angry, and I didn’t mean?—”
His gaze stayed fixed on the window, but she caught the sharper rise and fall of his chest. The words felt like crossing a battlefield of constructs from the crucible.
“You were right,” she admitted at last. The words tasted bitter, but it was her fault for how they’d left things. “I couldn’t see past my pain, and that wasn’t fair to you. I lashed out because being angry is easier than feeling… everything else.”
Dawson was quiet for a long time.
When he finally glanced at her, some of the tension in his shoulders eased. “You’re terrible at apologies.”
“I know.” She almost smiled. “But I figured I owed you one anyway.”
His finger barely grazed the purple bruise blooming on her neck from training.
She went still, fighting the urge to lean into his touch.
“Finish stitching me up before I bleed out on your bed, Firework.”
She didn’t respond, returning her focus to cleaning the wound and threading the needle. Her hands were steady despite being painfully aware of every point of contact between them.
He kept watching her with those intense, unreadable turquoise eyes.
“This is going to hurt,” Alaire warned.
“I can handle it.”
She began stitching, her fingers moving with practiced precision. Each time the needle pierced his skin, his body tensed, but he didn’t make a sound.
“How did you get so good at this?” he grunted.
“I had no choice. After leaving the orphanage, I couldn’t access healers. Soulwardens aren’t permitted to treat humans the way they do fae. A lot of us learned to take care of ourselves.”
She lifted the hem of her leathers, revealing a scar above her hip. “I stitched my wounds because no one else would. Had to bite down on a buckle strap to muffle the pain. Funny how, when faced with life or death, you’ll do almost anything to stay—even if you prayed for Umbra to take you. You keep moving because stopping means dying.”
