Page 48 of Healer to the Ash King
“I can’t sleep,” he says. “And I figured out how it could work.”
He tosses a piece of paper onto the rose-colored blankets. I pick it up and examine the extremely graphic sketch of several naked people. It takes me a minute to realize he has drawn the group sex scene from the highwayman novel. The girl is lying belly-down with one man face-up beneath her and the other face-down on top of her—and then there’s a third man standing behind and a fourth up front.
“Decent drawing skills, Your Majesty,” I muse, willing myself not to blush. “But you’ve given far too much thought to this.”
Despite my best efforts, my face is warming, and I’m seized by the compulsion to press my legs together. The panties under my nightdress are soaked.
The Ash King shrugs, sending his little fire orbs up to the ceiling of my room, where they spin lazily in a circle.
“Did you have a nice dinner with the girls?” I ask.
“Yes, but we ended the evening early because of tomorrow’s challenge,” he says. “And I can’t sleep. Can your magic induce sleep?”
“I can normalize heart rates, soothe nerves, and calm inflammation, but I can’t directly stimulate the production of chemicals in the body, nor can I alter brain function,” I tell him.
“Fine,” he growls. “I suppose I’ll drink myself to sleep. I’ve already indulged in a couple glasses—care to join me in draining a whole bottle, or two?” He throws himself onto my bed and reaches for the pull-cord to summon the maid.
“Don’t!” I lean over and grab his wrist. “Do you want her to see us like this? Think of the scandal.”
He looks at me, a humorous smile hovering over his lips, his eyes flickering a warm amber. I can smell his wine-laced breath, which explains why he’s in a more cordial and forgiving mood than he was earlier today.
Reclined beside him, I’m much too close to the expanse of his naked chest and his long bare legs. My gaze wanders up the beautiful sinewy lines of his outstretched arm, to the wrist I’m holding, then to the strong fingers poised around the bell-cord.
Slowly he pulls his arm back, bringing it close to his breast so that my knuckles brush his skin. “How else can I get to sleep?” His tone is huskier than usual. “I need my sleep, Healer, or I become somewhat volatile.”
“I could—I could give you a massage. I’m rather good at them.”
I wait with bated breath for him to make a comment about wanting a more intimate kind of massage, but he only regards me for a moment before rolling over onto his stomach. “Have at it, then.”
“You know I’ll be able to scan you while I’m doing this.”
“I’m aware. You already know part of the secret I was trying to conceal—the intractable, unMutable nature of my flesh. The rest—well, Jonald tells me it’s hard to describe. See for yourself, but don’t ask me to explain it.”
Curious, I hop off the bed and dip my fingers in the soothing herbed ointment my maid keeps on my dressing tray with the perfumes. Slicking the ointment over my fingers, I resume my seat and scoot nearer to him. His back is broad, so I have to reach awkwardly and angle my body as I press my fingers to his shoulders. It would be much easier to work on his muscles if I were astride him, but I’m not sure I have the boldness to try that.
At least, not yet.
I know every muscle group in the human body, though I have never learned all their correct names. I know them like a child knows the faces of dear relatives before she can pronounce their names or understand their place on the family tree.
The muscles at the curves of the Ash King’s shoulders are hard as rocks, and not just from strength. This is a knotted anxiety, hard-baked into his flesh. There is extraordinary tension below the base of his neck and along the upper part of his spine. I rub those taut muscles with my thumbs, roll against the knots with the heels of my hands.
When I get to the slabs of muscle across his shoulder blades and back, I pummel them with my fists, knead them with my knuckles. My palms push through the tension, rubbing it away. As usual, my eyes drift shut as I work, and my other sense takes over—the instinct that tells me where the pain and damage are. He’s harder to read than other patients—I have to concentrate more, as if there’s an extra layer between the aura of his body and my senses.
I’m nearly replenished, but I don’t dare use too much healing energy on him. I only allow a little to seep through his skin, seeking out inflammation to soothe. Or at least, I try to let it seep through—but I’m halted, as if by some barrier. Frowning, I push harder, breaking through the resistance.
The Ash King groans, and I gasp, because in the dark behind my eyelids I can see the interior of him, like a human-shaped furnace in my mind. I’m not a Ricter—I can’t sense resonance. Whatever I’m seeing is beyond resonance, beyond anything a normal human or wielder possesses. Every one of his bones burns golden; his veins are threads of glowing scarlet, and his muscles are heated amber. Yet on the surface he looks and feels human. How is this possible?
I want to ask him what he is, but he told me not to. I have a feeling he doesn’t really know. Or if he does, he isn’t ready to tell me.
This is information the Undoing will want. And I should give it to them, because this man under my palms has killed thousands of people—hispeople. He burned them alive in their homes, in their fields and shops. And for what? No one knows. Some people give one reason, some another. But no one who was there that day survived, except for him.
As I continue palpating each muscle, I make an inner vow, sacred as my Healer’s promise.
I will tell the Undoingnothingabout the King until I’ve heard his version of the Ashlands massacre. Because despite his moments of cruelty, I can’t imagine him murdering so many human beings purposefully, in cold blood. I can’t believe it, or I don’t want to.
Because I like him. I like the way he keeps coming to me, as if he can’t help himself. I like his fascination with me, his obvious lust for my body. I like the way he keeps making exceptions for me and bending the rules.
I’m not blind. I see the way he overcompensates for his insecurities with terrifying lies and vindictive punishments. I see how he keeps everyone at a distance and wears a harsh, cold façade to frighten away those who creep too close. He is controlling, power-hungry, jealous, proud, changeful, and selfish. But he is also tentatively edging nearer to me, opening himself up little by little. Maybe because he wants to fuck me. Or maybe there is more to this pull between us.
