William jerked when rope lashed his ankles together—his wrists too. He stared down at them in disbelief before his gaze sought hers. She didn’t allow him a glance. Instead, she rushed toward Bash, to where he stood, his hand reaching to grip the blade. With a curse, he yanked it free. The knife was wicked, serrated, and long. A blade meant for killing. It clattered to the stones.
Alora immediately added her hand to his to stem the flow from the wound.
“I don’t think it’s healthy to bleed so much in a single day,” he murmured.
“It isn’t,” said Alora, panicked. “Where is the Urchin healer?”
“Likely at Opulence.”
He pressed his opposite hand atop hers, sandwiching her fingers between. She stacked her opposite, too, for good measure. Even so, she could feel wet against her palms. His blood, again.
She should be thankful he was still standing, she supposed.
But then again,no, she wasn’t thankful at all. She pulled her hands free, which the Urchin grunted at. “Bring up your shirt.”
“Are you going to stitch me closed?”
Alora shuddered at the idea. “Absolutely not. You need someone to heal whatever is cut apart internally. But I can bind it at least. Our hands seem to be useless.”
“As useless as they may be, I don’t think I can release it.”
“Fine,” said Alora. “I’ll do it then.” Reaching beneath his coat, she hauled at his shirt. When it came free from his trousers, she imagined every button undone.
“A trick I’d like to see under different circumstances,” whispered Bash, and cleared his throat weakly.
“Stop it.” She scowled as she pushed the fabric aside. In her hands were now stacked bandages and wrappings. She folded them quickly. “I’m ready. Let go.”
He did as told, his hands coming free to fall at his side. Alora finished pulling the cloth from his skin, though it came away slow and sticking. Her mouth filled with saliva, but she swallowed it down. She was too proud to empty her stomach in front of William.
When the wound was at last revealed to her, it was deceptively small. Blood pulsed from its opening, not far above his hip, coloring his pale skin red. “Hold this all away from your waist so I can wrap it. If you can,” she added, gentler than before.
“Anything for you,” said Bash, but she could hear the difference in his voice; it was tight with pain.
Still, he hauled up the fabric, his coat and shirt knotted in his grip until his entire torso was revealed to her. Alora pressed the bandages to the wound at once. His muscles bunched just beneath the surface as he hissed over the discomfort she’d unfortunately caused. “Just a moment more,” she said quietly so as to bely her terror.
While holding the bandage in place, she worked the wrapping around his back. She had to press up against him to reach, and his smooth skin was warm where it touched her. Her fingers brushed against his back, side, then abdomen, and her gaze dipped to his low-slung trousers before making another pass. She cleared her throat.
With the bandage tied off and secure, Alora stepped back. He released his clothing immediately, but being as it was no longerbuttoned, his shirt hung open on either side. He made no move to fix it, and his sculpted chest showed thin, white lines now. She grimaced in remembering the specter wolves’ bloodied marks.
“You need a doctor. Stay here. I’ll call for one,” she said, meaning to hurry away down the steps.
“No.” Bash reached to stop her as she passed by him, his arm corralling her about the waist. “Necros is below. I’ll ride to Opulence.”
“You really think you can make it all that way? The doctor will be closer.”
“With this bandage, I could probably make Eirian.”
His tone was light, but Alora couldn’t suppress the involuntary shudder at the mere mention of the name. “What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. Only I don’t appreciate you making a mockery over nearly dying again. For all I know, you could pass out from blood loss on the road, and nobody would find you until morning.”
“Necros won’t allow me to fall.”
“I hate that name,” muttered Alora.
Bash ignored her opinion, choosing instead to make quick work of his shirt’s buttons. His breaths were labored by the time he was through, his hand coming up to press against his side. His sigh was long-suffering as he reached inside his coat. Alora gasped at what he removed.
It was Mortimer’s weapon. Or one just like it. Bash pushed a dart into the chamber.
