Page 46 of The Blood that Binds Us

He’s at my rear a second later, hands balling the fabric at the base of my tunic, his knuckles grazing my bare skin. He doesn’t lift it, waiting a beat to see if I will refuse his help again. Shoving down my pride, I dip my chin in the slightest of nods, and Sin carefully slides my top the rest of the way up and over my head.

I suck in a breath as his fingers brush the ties of my bodice.

“I need it off,” he says hurriedly, but his hands pause, waiting for my consent.

I nod again.

Sin undoes the ties of my bodice with impressive speed, and a wave of heat rushes to my face as I wonder how he became so practiced in the art of getting women out of their undergarments. The thin piece of clothing falls open, revealing my back to him.

Chilled air nips at my spine, and he yanks a blanket off the bed and drapes it over my shoulders before slowly lifting my left arm by the elbow. He presses the tips of his fingers where it looks like an ink pot spilled onto my side, and when they suddenly vanish from my skin, I shiver as the cold quickly rushes to settle where the warmth of his hands had been.

A loud ripping sound startles me from behind, and I look over my shoulder just as Sin tears off a length of the tape with his teeth. “I’ll have Anika tend to you the minute we return. The rib is cracked. Wrapping it will help for now.”

While mages possess the ability to heal wounds and injury—mending broken bones is best left to those trained in the art of healing and bone setting. This is a job for Anika—the castle’s designated healer.

Sin presses the tape to my bruised side and carefully wraps it under my other arm and across the top of my waist. The backs of his knuckles graze the undersides of my breasts as he pulls the tape across my front with each wrap. I refuse to be embarrassed. I felt enough of that when his horse knocked me on my ass in front of him.

Desperate to distract myself from the situation at hand, I say, “This wouldn’t have happened had you left me out there like you so boldly declared you were going to.” After all, it washishorse that decided to paint a hoof-shaped bruise on my side.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t insisted we dismount,” he snaps. He tugs the tape a little harder but lets up when I wince at the pain.

“It was critical for the horses we did. I would trade a broken rib for a living horse any day, Your Grace.”

He secures the remaining length of tape, and lowers my arms to my sides. I startle when he presses callused fingers to my back and traces the familiar jagged pattern that runs from my right shoulder blade to the left side of my lower back. It doesn’t hurt—the wound is long scarred over—but something about the Black Art seeing the failure I wear on my back hardens my bones to diamond.

“What happened?” His voice is low, and I can’t tell if that’s genuine concern or mere curiosity in his tone.

“Cathal.” I don’t elaborate—I don’t need to. I’m sure the Black Art is more than familiar with what the aftermath of a lashing looks like.

Sin is quiet for an extended beat, then drops his hand from my marred flesh. I’m certain the Black Art has earned more than his fair share of scars over the years, but kingdom healers can erase those kinds of marks with ease. With a family comprised of four adult transcendents and a fellow mage sister, we could have healed the scars on my back also, but I never wanted to. As soon as Cathal’s whip bit into my skin, it birthed a memory that no amount of healing magic could erase. Removing the scarring only seemed like trying to cover up an experience I would never be able to unlive.

Sin clears his throat. “He is too valuable to kill right now, but he won’t be forever. And when that time comes, Wren, it’ll be in your name I rip out his callous heart.”

His words stun me into silence for a moment, and I almost wonder if my ears betrayed me. Singard Kilbreth—reaper of souls and darkness incarnate—vowed to slaughter a bloodwitch’s enemy in her honor.

And I fucking hate my body for reacting the way it does to the sound of my name in his low, graveled voice.

I definitely hit my head.

“I’ll heat you a bath. Your skin is freezing.”

He calls for the large tub to be filled, and the soldier who escorted us to the tent begins bringing in buckets of water and pouring them in the basin. The tent definitely belongs to an officer as it is decently spacious and has an off-ground bed, private bath, and a couple small tables.

Sin returns to the bedside table and pulls his soaked shirt over his head, revealing a deep bronzed back, sculpted with muscle.

Nothing that lethal should be so beautiful.

The tips of his long hair brush the center of his spine, and he picks up the clean shirt provided, the layers of muscle flexing in his arms and shoulders as he pulls it over his head. He picks up the dry pair of trousers, and my breath catches in my throat.

As if thinking better of it, he slings them over his arm and walks to the bath, now filled with water. He places his hand to the side of the tub, and a moment later, steam rises in beckoning tendrils.

“I’ll give you some privacy.”

He takes a swig from the whiskey bottle, then ducks out of the tent, and I don’t waste time disrobing out of the rest of my sodden clothing and slipping into the bath. The water instantly floods relief to my chilled bones, and Sin’s wrap job actually has reduced the pain in my side significantly.

He returns before I’m finished, now wearing the dry trousers, and merely shoots me a passing glance before he walks past, pulls off his shirt, and flops into the bed.

Theonebed.

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