I let the faintest smile free as she bolts toward the door, my shirt dangling around her thighs and draped off her slight shoulder. She disappears from sight, her scent blown away with a pushy breeze, and I’m instantly struck with the stew’s busty aroma—hearty and packed full of botanical smells that make my mouth water.
I’ve heard her stomach rumbling. Mine’s making the same sounds. Can’t remember the last time I ate.
After some time, she comes dashing through the door with a wooden bowl tucked against her chest. “You’re going to have to stop stirring the stew,” she announces, settling on her knees before me.
I frown at the slurry of brown muck she drags her fingers through, lifting them expectantly as she looks at me from beneath thick lashes.
Clearing my throat, I pull the spoon out and set the lid on top of the pot, lean back, and make room for her between my thighs. She begins painting my wounds like she’s sweeping a paintbrush over my skin, nibbling her bottom lip in concentration.
I look away; focus on the fire. Picture myself in an ice bath, and pretend I’m not ready to combust at the vision of her.
The smell of her.
The feel of hertouchingme.
She has no idea of the power she wields. I’d crumble worlds just to see her smile.
“Shouldn’t we be moving toward the Norse? Hitch a ride on a barge?” she asks, dragging her fingers through the goo again and painting up by my clavicle.
“Too much traffic. If we keep heading in this direction, we will eventually emerge near Quoth Point.”
“Eventually,” she echoes, pausing to look up at me from beneath her brows.
I shrug. “If it were the easy route, everybody would take it.”
And we absolutely wouldn’t.
She makes a soft humming sound and continues painting my wounds in slow, tender strokes, easing back to inspect her handiwork before wiping her fingers on the grass. “All done.”
My chin drops to my chest. “Looks good.”
She beams so bright it almost makes me reconsider my next action.
Almost.
I reach forward, pinching the knot on the bandage bound around her throat just as she’s about to rock to her feet. She snaps her hand up and bands it around my wrist, wide eyes lit with a burst of wildfire.
“What are you doing?”
“Salving your wounds.”
“I didn’t agree tosalved wounds,”she spits, yanking my wrist, grinding her teeth together in such a way I picture her canines breaking through.
My own punch down so fast the color leaches from her cheeks.
“And I don’t want you dying of infection,” I say, nice and slow. Steady. Betraying none of the wildness slashing at the underside of my skin. “Drop your hand. Now.”
Her upper lip peels back as she rises higher on her knees, pushes her face close to mine, andsnarls—making my heart rattle.
My pulse pumps hot and heavy, every cell in my body igniting as I thread my hand through her hair and gently tug, tipping her head. “Remember what I told you about that fire, Milaje.” My gaze flicks to her lips. “This mouth is making promises that I doubt you have the intention of backing up.”
She frowns, like she has no idea what I’m talking about.
Probably a good thing.
“Hand. Now.”
She huffs out a sigh and loosens her grip. I pull my hand from her hair as she twists around so she’s staring at the flames, then lumps on her ass on the ground between my wide-open thighs. Radiating enough anger to set fire to the jungle, she tips her head, offering me access to the filthy bandage.
