Page 35 of Trapped By Claws
A heavythudroused me along with the smell of old, salted fish.
I startled, my eyes opening just long enough to see he'd gotten me back inside his home and kicked the main door shut. The heavy scratches and gouges in the rock mostly remained, but the ones nearest the lock had vanished.
Murmuring, Corvin took me to the guest room, then hesitated. Gently, he set me on the stone. "Give me a moment." He scooped up my mat and carried it out.
My mouth was dry. Everything ached, but I could feel all my fingers and toes.
I stared up at the ceiling. The fissures and cracks blurred.
Focusing, I twitched my leg again. It responded slowly but without too much pain. Just an ache, as if I had overworked it. That was something, thank the Creator.
Footsteps scraped across the stone. Corvin returned, lifted me gently, and carried me to his room.
He had placed the two mats together and seemed to have found a third, though it now looked even more like a pile than a bed. After he placed me on them, he slipped a balled-up tunic under my head for a pillow. It smelled like old fabric, stale water,sea salt, and a hint of lavender. "You just need to rest," he said, his voice soft. "You're going to be all right."
Despite his harshness the previous night and the sharpness of his tone moments before, he was startlingly gentle.
The world faded in and out.
He put some sort of foul-tasting liquid to my lips. Then he examined me, his fingers pressing against my arm and side and head and his claws brushing along my flesh. His breath whooshed over my neck and shoulder.
I couldn't keep my eyes open.
He rubbed my hands and wrists, his grip powerful and yet soothing.
"You're like ice," he murmured.
The warmth of his hands around mine was so strong it almost burned, but I couldn't rouse enough to pull away. I just wanted to disappear back into the comfortable haze of sleep, yet questions provoked me despite my exhaustion. They nibbled at my mind, demanding answers.
He'd saved me somehow.
I tried to speak, but my tongue was like a brick in my mouth. A small attempt at asking how resulted in a garbled string of syllables.
"Wasn't going to let you die," he grumbled in response. He pulled my shoes and the oversized socks off. Then he mumbled something about it being too cold and how he hadn't realized it. He rubbed my feet and ankles, scowling.
I winced slightly. Despite his claws, he handled me with care, pressing and massaging to get the blood flowing. It stung and ached, yet also felt incredible. Painfully good.
He continued to mutter and growl, but sweet night, the man knew how to get the blood flowing again. His hands moved along my feet and calves with steady intensity, working away the knots and forcing the blood through. Sometimes his claws lightlyscraped my skin, sending shudders of pleasure through me at the stimulation.
Though I cringed, I didn't fight him or kick. Not even when his claws brushed that ticklish line down the center of each of my feet.
It was the first time in ages someone had actually taken care of me.
I swallowed hard, the weariness still pulling me down. This was horrible. I should hate him. Except—honestly—it was really hard to even dislike someone who was this skilled at making me feel good.
It's just—I knew I should hate him.
"You're sleeping in my bed tonight," he said. "With me. It's too cold for you to be in the guest room. There's no heat here." The last words had a bitter note to them. "No heat anywhere." He continued to rub my ankles, his grip strong and firm. "But I'm not letting you die from the cold. Or anything else."
"How am I not dead?" I murmured.
"You just aren't. Rest. We can talk tomorrow." He massaged my feet a few minutes longer and then lay down beside me, pulling up the blankets over us.
"Hmmph," I protested.
"We both know you're cold," he growled. "I'm not going to hurt you. But I am going to keep you warm."
"Fine." I set my jaw.
