Page 52 of Unlikely Omega

“Even worse. Her scent.” He bucks, almost throwing me off him. “It’s too dangerous for her.”

“The General can control himself.”

“The hell he can. You’re lying to yourself. Why?”

“I’m not… hey, shut your fucking mouth. That’s my General you’re talking about. He’s a great man.”

He lifts his chin stubbornly, his eyes a strange iridescent silver in the flickering light of the fire. The muscles in his arms bunch up as he tries again to throw me off.

“I don’t care what he is,” he says. “She’s starting to perfume and you know it. Maybe your General has a stuffed nose and can’t smell her or won’t care about her perfume, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? You bastard.” This time he twists and turns, and he’s slippery, so slippery. I fall off him and he’s instantly on his feet and running for the door.

There’s blood smeared all over me, all over him, and that’s when it dawns on me that it’s coming from him.

I grapple him from behind and he curses a blue streak as he goes down again. This time he groans out loud and folds over, a hand pressed to his side.

Fuck.

“Stay still,” I order him as I grab my provisions from a basket by the table. “This is the army. We have a surgeon traveling with us, but I have my own basic care items in my tent for smaller injuries.”

At least, I hope his is small.

“Lean back.” I pull his hand from his side, my mouth flattening at the sight of the wound. “Dammit. Sit still.” I take out clean linen and water and set about wiping off the blood and cleaning the wound.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he breathes, giving me a hazy look.

“What does it look like? Making sure you don’t die of infection and blood loss.”

“Go after… after her.” His cheeks are flushed. I hope he’s not running a fever. “Can’t let the General have her.”

“Why not?” I say, despite the way that feeling crushes my lungs again. “What’s so special about her?”

He doesn’t reply, hunching over again, pale hair covering his face. It’s so pale it looks white. He’s like a statue cut from marble, a marble likeness of the gods sitting on the rugs of my tent.

“Sit up,” I say, and when he doesn’t move to comply, I grab his arm and shake him. “Hey. Sit up, right the fuck now.”

He does, and then a murderous look comes on his face. “You can’t order me about!”

“I just did and it worked, didn’t it?” I grin at him, enjoying his irritation, and then I’m annoyed at myself for feeling such relief at finding out that he hadn’t passed out. I lift a small bottle, uncork it. “Now this might sting a little…”

I’m lying. It’s pure alcohol and I’ve had grown men, seasoned soldiers, cry when it was poured over their open wounds, but as I pour it over his side, he barely flinches.

“So stoic,” I mutter, again annoyed at his amazing control over himself. “You can’t see but fight like a daemon and don’t seem to feel any pain. Are you even human?”

“Why,” he says, “are you?”

I blink, the bottle clenched in my hand. “What?”

“I said, are you human?” He cocks his head to the side and I swear he looks like he can see me, see right through me. “What do you think?”

“Fae-blood freak.”

“Not our son.”

“Go and never come back.”

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