Page 36 of Trapped By Claws
He pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me.
It was all I could do to keep from gasping.
Oh, salt's bane!
I hated myself now instead of him. Hated how much I enjoyed his arms around me and even the smell of him. He smelled more of salt water than the cologne he had worn before, and his body wrapped completely around me, burying me in blissful heat and comfort.
I was a traitor to my mother and to my own independence, because right now all I wanted was to be held.
He tucked his chin over the top of my head. "How do you feel?" he demanded. "Am I hurting you?" His voice was so much rougher than before, vibrating through me. A faint tremor passed through his arms.
"No," I admitted reluctantly.
"Good." He burrowed a little closer. "I just—I just want you to be all right." He adjusted the blankets and extra garments over us. His hand pressed against my side where the wound had been.
Had been.
It didn't even hurt now.
He pressed his cheek to mine, his voice a low rumble. "You're not in pain." I couldn't tell whether it was a question or a statement. "It's not coming back."
"Should it?" I tensed as his hands pressed along my side to my waist and stomach and along my hip.
Tagger hopped up on us and curled up like a cat, draped over our sides. His whiskers tickled my cheek.
A long pause followed. "No…it shouldn't." His voice softened. "You're safe." He hugged me closer. "You're safe, Mena."
Was I?
A long silence passed.
Maybe I really did feel safe. Even with his claws lightly pressed into my arm and his foot tucked over mine. His body was like granite behind me, but it was soothing as well.
Sleep claimed me before I could torment myself further.
A cold, wet snout poked my cheek. Warm, fishy breath filled my nose.
Wincing, I opened my eyes to find Tagger staring into my eyes. He booped me and then hopped back, his tiny black claws and coarse paw pads making soft claps on the stone floor.
I sat up slowly, my body not nearly as stiff or sore as I expected. I guessed the healing that had kept me from dying yesterday had finished its process and made me better than when I started.
The door was slightly ajar.
I stood. My knees and spine cracked, and when I stretched, it felt wonderful. Tagger hopped near the doorway, urging me to come out.
I complied.
To my surprise, Corvin had prepared something special.
The table had been set with several items: a plate of salted fish, fresh out of a tin of oil so that the filets shone in the pale-blue light, a couple scratched jars of pickled vegetables of some sort, a leaf-wrapped bread that was falling apart, a tall, striped pitcher without a handle, and a cracked stone plate.
Corvin placed a couple battered serving utensils on the table before turning to face me. He wore the same black garb as yesterday, the garments immaculate and crisp, and his boots shiny.
"I made you breakfast," he said, his demeanor somber. Something was bothering him. He held a large mug in his left hand. His gaze was downcast. Three deep lines formed over his brow.
"Thank you." I folded my hands in front of myself as I approached the table.
"It's not much," he said. "I know the pickled vegetables are safe to eat. And the fish. I—I suppose I don't know about the bread. It's salt pumpernickel, and it was wrapped in leaves. But it was cracked. It's…salty."
