Page 45 of The Blood that Binds Us

The pain is blinding.

I turn my head inward so my forehead rests against the smooth planes of his chest. Oddly enough, the gentle rocking as he carries me through the woods is soothing. Or rather, it would be if the rain wasn’t now pelting us with enough force to leave bruises.

“The horses. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean for…”

“Don’t talk, you’ll only aggravate the break. The horses are trained to find their way back to the castle. It’s only you we need to worry about right now.”

I nod against his chest, unsure if he can see it but he’ll feel my hair scratching against him with the vertical movement. Time eludes me. I’m not sure if it’s been minutes or hours since Sin scooped me up as if I weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and traipsed through the tangled woods. Fire pokers prod at my side and I force myself to exhale in sharp pants through my lips, the pain too great to take anything more than shallow breaths. Tears sting my eyes and I bury my face farther into his chest, notes of cedar and peppercorn washing over me.

My eyes jolt open as Sin kneels and lowers me to a soft patch of grass.

He presses something cold and smooth to my lips. “Open up, love.”

I don’t know why—maybe I hit my head when I fell—but I part my lips without objection and let him pour a vile liquid down my throat. When the contents are empty, he pulls out a second bottle from his pocket and dumps it down his own gullet.

The potions. He’s reverting our appearances.

He slides his hands under me, lifts me against his chest again, and continues on his way.

“I can walk,” I mutter lazily, the bitter taste of the tonic clearing the fog in my head.

“We’re almost there,” he answers but doesn’t slow to set me on my feet.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a military outpost not far from where the horses left us stranded. We’ll commandeer a tent for the night and take one of their horses back in the morning.”

Explains why he reverted our appearances. I doubt kingdom soldiers would give up a tent for anyone other than the Black Art himself.

“Does this mean I’m not a cute brunette anymore?” I ask with eyes closed, still focusing on taking steadying breaths to keep myself from hollering my way through the pain.

In no doubt an effort to distract me from the crushed bone that was once my rib, he lowers his lips to my ear and says, “I prefer blondes anyway.”

* * *

The Black Art calls for wrapping tape and whiskey before ducking inside the military tent and laying me on the bed.

His hands are on the hem of my tunic immediately, grabbing the fabric and sliding it up my—

“Stop,” I choke through the pain.

His hands halt immediately. “Wren, I need to look at it.”

A man dressed in kingdom armor appears in the tent’s entrance; tape, a bottle of amber liquid, and some balled up clothes in his hands. He sets them on the bedside table and waits for Sin to dismiss him, which he promptly does, his green eyes never leaving mine.

I push myself into a sitting position, dangling my legs over the side of the bed, and wince as I gingerly press my hand to my side.

“Your clothes are soaked—you need to get out of them anyway.”

“And you think I’m just going to let you be the one to take them off?” I scoff.

He growls under his breath. “You must have hit your head harder than I thought if you think I’d ever have interest inthatwithyou.”

“Hmm. As far as I see it, only one of us is trying to strip the clothes off the other.”

Exhaling sharply, he throws his hand through his hair and turns his back to me. I stand and face away from him, grabbing my shirt and—

“Fuck,” I wince, unable to bite back the pain that lashes through me as I try to lift my tunic.

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