Tempted to scrunch my nose, I look at the putrid contents ... back again. “Eat? Really? Right now?”
The pain in my chest makes me more inclined to gag than swallow, and the thought of trying to stuff that crap down my gullet does nothing to quell my queasiness.
Her head tilts to the side.
I sigh, rubbing the ache from my wrists while easing up to the challenge, then dig two trembling fingers through the muck.
Hissing, she slaps my hand.
Got that wrong.
She pretends to spit in the bowl, then shoves it under my chin again.
“You want me tospitin it?” I say, brows raised.
She blinks.
I pretend to spit, pointing at the bowl and nodding. “Yes?”
Another blink, followed by a slow nod, quickening until her hair is a blur of motion around her pretty face.
Progress. Kind of.
I move my tongue around my mouth. Dry as a bone. “I have none ...”
She frowns.
“Mouth. Dry.” I point to my lips. Poke out my tongue.
Her eyes widen, and she leaps off the bed, dashing to the corner of the room where a large bucket resides. She gets behind the thing and shoves it along the ground, sending water sloshing over the edge, until she stops right next to the nest and collects an armful of furs. I’m lugged forward, groaning as she stuffs them behind my back, then scoops water within her cupped hands and awkwardly brings it to my mouth.
Some dribbles free, paving clean paths through the blood painting my chest.
I peek up, catching her stern stare and my breath.
Right.
Tentatively, I open my mouth. Her silky fingers graze across my sensitive bottom lip, wetting my tongue with a small tip of icy water—barely enough to swallow since I’m wearing most of it.
Even so, I moan at the crispness that lacks a salty pinch. Realize just how thirsty I am.
She scoops more, and I line her cupped hands with my much larger ones and guide them to my mouth, gulping whatever makes the journey past my dried, cracked lips. Before I even have a chance to ask, she repeats the process, brow pinched as she watches me gulp. And gulp.
And gulp.
How long have I been out?
“Thank you,” I gasp, curling her fingers up to signal that I’m done.
She grabs the bowl of muck and she shoves it in my face again, nodding vigorously.
The corner of my mouth kicks up, but she snarls and shoves the bowl closer.
Not a smiling matter, then.
I spit, and she’s swift to plow her fingers through the muck, mushing it all together before scooping up a healthy handful and stuffing it in my wound.
Motherf—
