Page 117 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“I have a sewing kit and some supplies in my room.”
His shoulders tensed—an acknowledgment that he’d heard her. “You don’t seem the type to take up needlepoint. Full of surprises,” he teased, though it came out more wheeze than wit. He pushed off the wall to face her.
“Hilarious.” She braced her hands on her hips. “It’s for emergencies. I suppose it’ll work for stitches. Follow me—I’ll get you patched up.”
Dawson hesitated, clearly torn.
“Or you can stay here and figure this out alone. Up to you.”
“Fine. After you,” he conceded reluctantly.
She offered him her arm, but he shook her off, placing one hand on the wall again to anchor himself. A grunt of pain escaped, but he kept his focus fixed ahead, mouth set in stubborn determination.
Despite the blood loss and obvious agony, he carried himself with the controlled grace of a born warrior: unyielding, too proud to show weakness. The sight of him, jaw clenched andmuscles taut, shouldn’t make her want to reach out and touch him.
She rarely got to study Dawson unnoticed, and she couldn’t help herself.
All that barely leashed power should’ve annoyed her. Instead, it made heat curl low in her stomach.
She dragged a hand down her face.Get your shit together, Alaire.
When they reached her room, she pushed open the door and gestured for him to enter.
“Sit.” She pointed to the edge of her bed.
He paused at the threshold, taking in the meticulously stacked library books, neat pile of papers, and immaculately made bed. Everything had its place.
“Who would’ve thought Alaire Vallorian’s room would look like a librarian’s dream?”
Yanking out a thin cotton blanket, she spread it across the bed.Rather not have blood on my sheets. Hyperaware of his gaze roaming the room, she asked, “Expecting something different?”
“Maybe a few scorch marks. Honestly, the tidiness is the most unsettling.” His eyes snagged on the nightgown draped over her chair, and his tone dropped to a rough purr. “Firework, if you really want to make me feel better, you could model that for me. Might be the cure I need.”
Alaire rolled her eyes, snatching up the gown and shoving it into a drawer hard enough to rattle the chest.
Dawson smirked as he made his way over to the bed. His movements were sluggish, each step rippling pain through him.
Opening another drawer, she pulled out supplies. The faint scent of dried herbs lingered. “I never had any stability at the orphanage. Kids came and went. Keeping things neat was my way of controlling the chaos around me. I guess it stuck.”
“When you put it that way, it makes sense. It gave you order.”
“Exactly.”
“Still, this isn’t how I imagined seeing your room for the first time.” His words were light, but the tension in his forearms betrayed the agony he tried to hide.
Heat crept up her neck. She forced her attention on laying out the supplies. “I’ll be sure to light some candles next time you decide to bleed out in the hallway,” she shot back, proud she sounded unaffected despite the butterflies rioting in her stomach.
“Noted.” A shadow crossed his features, but it vanished just as quickly.
“Sit still.” She threaded a needle and uncorked a small bottle of alcohol. “Take off your shirt.”
Dawson arched a brow. “Usually I’d expect at least a meal and a drink first.” The ghost of a smirk appeared despite the pain etched in the lines between his brows and the way his fists clenched against his thighs.
“Just do it.” Alaire rolled her eyes—again. A common reaction he seemed to draw from her. “I need to see the wound if I’m going to fix it, Knox.”
With a wince, Dawson pulled his shirt up instead, revealing a deep gash running along his right side. The cut looked far too clean to be an accident, but she kept the observation to herself.
Her eyes traced the black ink of his tattoos, the defined planes of his chest and abdomen. She was definitely not lingering on abs that could make anyone swoon. Definitely not.
