Page 192 of Blade of the Nightking

One dark eyebrow lifted. "Is that so."

"Yes.”

He didn’t answer for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he bit the inside of his cheek and released a slow breath through his nose. "Fine."

Satisfied, I crossed the short distance separating us and lowered myself stiffly onto the log beside him. I needed us moving again. The sooner we reached the next Gate, the sooner we could break this bond, heal Aedric, and put an end to all of this.

Without a word, I held out my hand. Rìan immediately moved to place his atop mine.

I snatched mine away again, and his brows drew together.

"Wash first." His hands were covered in rabbit blood.

A low sound of annoyance rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, but he unhooked the skin hanging from his belt, uncorked it with his teeth, and poured the remaining water over his hand. Blood streamed over his knuckles and down his wrist before dripping into the pine needles below, revealing the bruising beneath in all its ugly glory. Tentatively, he lifted the hem of his shredded shirt to pat it dry.

My eyes betrayed me. Only for a moment. Just long enough to catch the hard ridges of his stomach and the sculpted muscle spanning his torso before I jerked my attention elsewhere. The shirt fell back into place.

Brain damage. It was the only explanation.

Satisfied that he was no longer coated in gore, I extended my palm once more.

Scowling, he settled his broken hand atop mine. My nose scrunched at the sight. The swelling had spread beyond his knuckles and across the back of his hand. His fingers remained curled at an awkward angle, refusing to fully straighten, and although he did his best to hide it, I could see the effort it took simply to rest his hand there without aggravating the injury.

My magic stirred back to life. The moment our skin touched, I felt it turn hastily toward him, as though it couldn't help itself.

Immediately I reached for it. Immediately it slipped away.

I tried again. Nothing. The power retreated from my grasp, refusing to be caught, shaped, or commanded. I gritted my teeth.

Across from me, Rìan remained infuriatingly silent.

I pressed my lips together. Gods, I hated this. I hated needing his help. I hated that he knew I needed it.

For several long seconds neither of us spoke. Then, because pride unfortunately did not appear capable of healing broken bones, I exhaled sharply. "Could you—" I never finished the sentence.

Silver flared softly through his eyes. A thin thread of magic unfurled from him, released with such careful control that I felt every inch of its approach. It didn't touch me. Didn't pry. Didn't press. It simply hovered nearby, close enough to make my skin tingle and my breath catch.

Immediately my magic came to greet it, racing toward his power with startling enthusiasm. This time, when I reached for it, it didn't evade me.

Instead, the familiar resistance dissolved beneath my touch and magic flooded my veins.

It whirled through me in brilliant light, spreading through every corner of my body until it felt as though radiance had seeped into my bones, my blood, my very marrow, filling hollows that had ached for so long I'd forgotten what it was like to feel whole. The sensation was almost overwhelming in its sweetness—so familiar, so deeply right—that for a moment I simply surrendered to it, letting the rush of power sweep through me.

With a single thought, I directed it downward into Rìan's hand. The power flowed happily from me, brushing lightly against his skin before sinking deeper, and immediately I became aware of the damage hidden beneath the surface. Fractures spiderwebbed through the bones of his hand, inflammation radiated through the surrounding tissue, and one knuckle had shattered so thoroughly that I found myself grimacing at the feel of it.

Gods. How had he been using it at all?

A sudden grunt escaped him as the bones shifted beneath my touch, grinding painfully back into alignment—but the low, involuntary moan that followed tore straight through me.

His hand slowly began to uncurl until his palm lay flat against mine.

It dwarfed my own, warm and worn with calluses, yet there was something unexpectedly fascinating about the feel of it. His fingers were long, solid and strong… Were they capable of gentleness? I wondered what it would feel like to lace my fingers through his.

I snatched my hand back as though I'd been burned.

Immediately his magic vanished. Mine followed a heartbeat later, withdrawing with palpable resentment, like a brooding animal denied something it desperately wanted. The ghost of his touch still lingered against my skin.

“Did it work?” I asked, a little too breathlessly.