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“Let me heal you,” I said as soon as he was done. “Take off your shirt.”
He hesitated, then slowly pulled off his shirt. It was soaked with blood and torn, and when he lifted it overhead, a long slice ran through his bloodied abs. My mark blazed on his shoulder, and it filled me with an inordinate sense of pride.
His chest and shoulders were muscular, each nook and cranny defined, and I focused my attention on the wound.
“It’s not deep,” he said.
I scoffed at him the same way he would’ve scoffed at me. Then I rested my hands lightly over his wound, calling my magic. When he cupped his hands over mine, a tension sizzled through my body. Damyn’s casual touch sent my entire body into overdrive.
A magical golden glow, warm and healing, formed under my palms, and his wound knit back together. I looked up at him, grinning with relief. My magic still worked.
He stared down at the wound in intense concentration. It was his magic that was healing his wounds now. Not me.
My stomach dropped. “I can’t do it.”
“Maybe later.” With the wound healed, he raised his face. We were intimately close, too close, and I sat back on my heels. “You used a lot of magic, Honor.”
I pulled a face. “Maybe for the last time, and it wasn’t how I meant to…”
“No, but you saved a lot of lives by disrupting Kallus’s army.”
“I caused complete chaos.”
“You usually do.” He kissed my forehead, then rose and headed for the river. “We need to clean up before we seek lodging, get some rest.”
“We should stay in the woods.”
“You need rest.”
“So do you. But taking lodging—it’s dangerous. What if Kallus finds us?”
“I’ll protect you,” he said.
“I want to protect you too, remember?” I shot back.
He left his trousers behind on the edge of the bank, then waded into the water in just his short. I pulled my eyes away abruptly as he stepped into the water, which rippled away from the taut lines of his calves.
Then my gaze swept back. I couldn’t resist.
“Stop ogling me,” he said without looking back.
“I was grievously wounded. I could still die. Don’t nag me.” I was so bone-tired I felt I could fall asleep right in the grass.
“You sound awfully sassy for someone grievously wounded.”
He returned, clad only in his soaking-wet shorts. It was a good effort on his part to maintain some modesty, but the white linen soaked to his rock-hard thighs and even harder cock.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said. He held out his hand and I took it, leveraging my weight to stand, but as soon as I swayed, he swept me into his arms.
He sat down with me in his lap, then hesitated. “Is it all right if I undress you?”
“Yes,” I managed.
His calloused hands swept across my skin, igniting everywhere he touched, no matter how business-like he tried to be about removing my tunic and trousers. Then he waded into the water carrying me, and he washed me with tender hands.
“You’ve got blood in your hair,” he said.
I dipped my head in the water, but he pulled me close, drawing my body against his with his arm across my waist, my back against his abs. “Stop fighting me. Let me take care of you for a moment.”
