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She rested her hands on her knees and leaned forward, trying to quell that restless sensation shooting through her veins.
Malik took up his usual place once more, leaning back in the tattered armchair and stretching his long legs out before him. He patted her hand in comfort and Dax resumed his position at his master’s feet in front of the fire, huffing, as though being interrupted had been a big inconvenience to him.
‘Thank you, my friends,’ she said quietly.
They stayed like that in companionable silence for a time, both Malik and Dax giving her the space she needed, but waiting to offer support should she need it.
Dax’s ears pricked up and Thea leapt to her feet as Hawthorne entered the library. While he no longer wore his armour, there was still blood coating his skin from the battle.
‘You,’ he said, taking a step towards her. ‘What are you doing here?’ His gaze travelled from her filthy appearance to Malik and Dax, who didn’t rise in his presence.
‘Reading,’ Thea replied finally, reaching for the nearest book.
Hawthorne’s gaze lingered on the former Warsword in the armchair. ‘Leave,’ Hawthorne commanded her.
‘I —’
‘It wasn’t a request, Alchemist.’
But then Thea noticed a wound, still bleeding, just beneath his collarbone. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘Hardly.’
‘I can help.’
‘I don’t want your help.’
That was the final straw for Thea. She stormed right up to him, her rage as fair a match as any for his towering frame andbattle experience. ‘I don’t care what you want,’ she snapped. ‘Sit down. Shut up. And let me treat that wound before it worsens.’
She hadn’t realised her hands were on her hips, but they were. With fury in her veins, she let it blaze in her eyes as she stared the Warsword down.
Stunned, he took a step back.
‘Now,’ she practically growled.
Surprisingly, after a moment’s pause, the Warsword did as she bid, seating himself in the armchair she’d vacated.
‘Shirt,’ she ordered, picking up Wren’s satchel and digging through the remaining supplies.
A loud rip sounded, and Thea looked up to see Hawthorne tearing through the fabric.
‘Was that necessary?’ She swiped the last clean bandages from the bag.
‘It was ruined anyway.’
Shaking her head, Thea went to him.
Even seated before her, he was enormous. It was a funny sight – a mighty warrior squeezed into a green velvet armchair. She kept that thought to herself as she studied the gash.
It was deep and ragged, the surrounding skin hot and irritated. She couldn’t help but click her tongue in annoyance. ‘You should have let me tend to this in the field.’
‘You’d done enough.’
‘That’s not really your call to make,’ Thea replied, cleaning the wound with the last of Wren’s paste.
He gave a hiss of pain.
‘I don’t have a gentle healer’s touch, I’m afraid,’ she said as she worked. ‘The creature’s talons pierced your armour?’
