“No.” I shake my head, trying to push out the pain that’s still coursing down my leg. “It’s not, you just caught me off guard is all.”
“Bring her back here.” Laurel lifts a leaf in the counter to allow us through and ushers us through the curtain towards a back room in the stall. I try to pull away from Quinn, but he holds strong, insisting on helping me back towards a small cot on the far side of the space.
The back room matches the front half of the shop, only on this side of the curtain things feel even more serious—sacred. In addition to a small office, more jars line even larger shelves and the walls are adorned with handmade creations, woven string with beads and bones and all sorts of elements of nature.
“They’re beautiful.” I nod towards a piece hanging on the wall beside the cot. “Do you make them?” I ask when Laurel kneels beside the cot.
She hums, nodding softly. “In my free time. Which these boys seem determined to rob me of.” She cuts a cold glare Quinn’s way, where he lingers at the foot of the cot.
“Hey, I’m not the one that fucked her so hard it left bruises,” he argues, hands going up in defense.
I melt with mortification, moaning as my hands fly to my face in an attempt to hide my shame. “Must we continue sharing this information with people?” I ask through the gaps between my fingers.
“Perhaps if you wanted to hide it, you shouldn’t have done it on top of the second-in-command's cut." He snickers, leaning against the wall and folding his arms over his chest. His white T-shirt strains against the muscles and I immediately force my gaze away. “You should have seen the look on Aamon’s face when she gave him back the cut, Laurel. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him so enraged.”
“Tact, Quinn. You could stand to learn some,” Laurel chides, turning back to me. “May I?” she asks, gesturing to the hem of my dress. I nod and she gathers the dark material in her fingers, delicately lifting the edge till my hip is exposed.
Laurel’s features betray nothing, but Quinn’s sarcastic demeanor drops the moment he sees the bruises. He stands up straighter, swiping the mask away from his face as he leans in with a severity that has me flinching. “Sterlingdid that?” he asks, eyes zeroed in on the blue and purple marks.
“It’s not him.” I tense, quickly covering the bruises. What to him should be only jealous remnants of Sterling's touch, seem to me now like a bright red warning sign. And despite the kindness I see in his eyes, I wonder if behind the ruse of kindness, he sees the rot inside me. If all of them do
“I just . . . bruise easy. I always have.” I hope it's enough to excuse away the markings. I neglect to mention the way Tamiel’s treatments have always left me littered with bruises and discolored, irritated skin. Or how that has typically been the least of my concerns with my health in the past. Part of me had always assumed the treatments were responsible for my fragile state, but it seems a week without them has left me even more delicate than before.
“Quinn, go to the desk over there and grab the wide amber bottle with the gold lid,” Laurel instructs, twisting my leg carefully back and forth and testing it with the soft press of her fingertips.
He stares a moment longer at my bare hip, my cheeks reddening with color the longer he refuses to move. “Quinn,” Laurel repeats, an edge of bite in her voice this time. He grimaces, turning away at last and stalking through the small back room. I can’t see him by the time he reaches the desk, but I can hear the way he fumbles roughly through the contents of the desk to find the jar.
“Your hip joint seems to be misaligned.” Laurel’s voice is low, and I know it's in an attempt to give us some privacy. It’s pointless. With Quinn’s heightened senses, he’dbe able to hear our conversation outside the stall, standing amongst the busy row of other merchants. But I appreciate the sentiment.
I tense as she shifts the direction of my leg, testing the rotation of the joint. “It’s dislocated?” I ask, surprised.
Laurel shakes her head briefly. “No, not quite. But it could easily become so if I don’t adjust it.” Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Is that okay?”
It’s so jarring, experiencing the way she heals. With Tamiel, nothing was ever my choice. I was told to sit still, told to not squirm, told to take her treatment without argument and trust she knows what’s best for me. Often, I wasn’t even told what was going into my body or how it may affect me. But much like with the boys, I’m beginning to notice that consent is everything with Laurel. It’s . . . not what I expected.
“Okay.” I nod hesitantly.
“Okay,” she repeats, just as Quinn comes back and hands her the jar. She sets it on a low table next to the cot. “Turn on your side.” She stands from her position on the floor beside the cot. I do as she says, Quinn beside me in an instant to offer a hand as I struggle to shift my weight.
“I’m going to stretch the leg—try to navigate it back into place. It may not feel pleasant, but should provide relief once it’s aligned,” she explains. I nod again, taking a deep breath as she runs her soft hands up the length of my leg and hooks her fingers under the crease of my knee. She does just asshe said and works my leg, guiding me through a series of motions and movements that are somehow distinctly soothing to the dull ache that’s been deep inside my hip since last night.
At last, she pulls my leg towards the edge of the cot, draping it over the edge and pressing her weight down delicately on the top side of my hip. I try to muffle the whimper that creeps up my throat, the pressure on the bruises making my eyes water.
“You’re hurting her,” Quinn says. It’s not a shout, but it’s not exactly kind either.
“No,” I breathe out, shaking my head as I close my eyes. “It’s working, I can feel it slipping back into place.” And with one final nudge from Laurel, I let out a sigh of relief. She lets me go, standing and dusting her hands as if she’s just finished potting a plant.
“Better?” she asks.
I turn over onto my back, marveling in the sudden relief. I hadn’t noticed just how bad it had been hurting. But now that the ache is nearly dissipated, I’m reveling in the bliss-filled feeling. “Yes, much,” I say on an exhale, practically laughing in amazement. Tamiel has never been able to do that. “Thank you.”
“I’m not done with you yet,” she says, swiping the jar off the table and gesturing down to my dress that’s fallen back in place. I gather it up once more, exposing the bruises to her again. She scoops out a glob of a sticky, dark creamthat smells overwhelmingly minty. “This will help with the bruising, and hopefully alleviate any lingering pain you may have.” She lifts her fingers up for me to see before slathering the curve of my hip and ass with the balm.
Quinn looms behind her as she bends over me. He has one arm wrapped around his abdomen, the other holding his chin as he strokes his stubbled jawline.
“Can you please tell him it’s not that serious?” I ask Laurel, huffing out a breath of frustration that’s elongated as Laurel hits a particularly sore spot.
She smiles, lips pursed thinly. “It’s not that serious, Quinn.” But I hear the pause in her words, and I know there’s more coming. “But you do need to be careful, Evangeline. Your body appears to be more prone to injury—more delicate than it should be—for someone of your kind.”
