“The Word of the Other,” I breathed, its worn leather absent amidst the few cloth-bound tomes stacked on the walls. “Where did you put it?” Cogs churned, the disjointed clues clicking together.
“You are no druid of the Blood God,” I breathed. “But a servant of the Other?”
“I can’t speak of it,” he gritted out. “I want to… I…”
“Are we leaving with the laurels? With Demetri?”We fly together. We fly together. We fly together.The buttons were boulders in my pocket, rivals to the one in my stomach.
He pressed a hand to my clavicle, pushing me back down onto the bed as he lifted the needle.
“I will try—”
“I won’t go.” I gripped his wrist, fingers unable to meet around its bulk. “Not without Demetri, not without Esioul.”
“That’s absurd. You—” He tried to shake me off, but I held firm.“I won’t abandon him, Lycandor. I won’t turn away…not again.”We plummet together.
“Smell it, my certainty, my truth. No matter the toll,” I insisted, digging my fingers harder. “Even if acolytes pile like reels of yarn, we must take him with us.”
He unplucked my hand, lowering it onto the bed. “Are you certain he’d do the same for you?”
“Yes,” I said, without a beat of hesitation.
He reclaimed my hand he’d only just rested on the sheets and brought it back under his shirt. “I will do everything I can to ensure they,he, comes with us, but I warn you—it may not be enough.”Thump. Thump. Thump.
I nodded. For some unnamable reason, I kept my hand there as he sewed the last of the cut.
“Done.”
I skimmed my hand down his stomach, removing it from under his shirt so he could stand and rinse his in the bowl. I bent my knees, readying to dismount, but he gripped the peak of them, holding me still. “If you wish it, I can heal them.” His helm flicked over my body, to the stitches. “They’ll close faster; it’ll numb the pain and make them immune to infection.”
I gulped with the realisation that it wasn’t my hand in need of his blessing this day…
“I could spit on a cloth…”
I attempted a grin, pained as it was. “You just want an excuse to lap at my breast, Druid.”
He inched closer, my forehead a thumb from his helm. In it, my twisted reflection stared back, half wild in the firelight. “If that was my true intention, I would choose another place to devour first—though, it’s a close second.” Can chainmail look smug? Because he’d managed it as he rose from the stool, the shadow of him eclipsing the firelight.
“Do it.” I could have said no. I should have said no. The buttons seemed to rattle with it;no, no, no.
He paused, before nodding, just once. “Close your eyes, then. No peeking.”
My heart was ready to leap from the chest he’d only just closed. “I won’t.”
A wet smack, like he was sampling wine, permeated the mail. “Seamstress,really…lime peel?” He tutted. “You littleliar.” He lowered to his knees, elbows indenting the mattress by my neck and waist. “I need you to understand it is of the utmost importance to me that you do not look. Do you vow it? I need you to mean it this time.”
I huffed, resisting the urge to pout. “I vow it.”
Closing my eyes, Lycandor chased me into the dark, his outline branding the back of my lids. I willed my heart to calm. It was his blessing; he was healing me, nothing more. If we were to travel by boat, the journey would be uncomfortable, and potentiallylong. I needed to be strong. The damp fabric clinging to my skin seemed to wrap tighter, the bedding’s weave like mountains under my hand. I clawed at the ends of my hair, gathered at my neck, and flung them over my shoulder.
Metal clattered to the floor.Just a lick, just a lick… I’d weathered one before.
“No peeking,” came his tremor.
Dipping, the mattress shifted as two hands pinned either side of my waist. His breath, hot and wet, hovered over the mark at my hip.
No, no, no.
I knew he could smell it, thatthingthat coiled low in my stomach, refusing to loosen. The same thing that had me panting, though I lay deathly still. I’d endured an offering, a penancing, Falstaff’s wicked scalpel, but I would not survive his teasing.My stomach flexed at the first dab of wetness, the tip of his tongue at the base of the cut at my hip, its seam raised with thread. In one languorous swipe, he dragged his tongue upwards, a trail of spit in its wake that burned cool in the chamber’s brisk air. I shuddered, unable to fully suppress it.
