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That curious brow of his seemed to ask,Why is it open? But I did not feel like talking to him about the feather. Besides, he sniffed out lies like a hound searching for an egg in a hen house, so making something up was pointless. Instead, I evaded the subject. “You can close it.” I gestured to his coat, shifting the conversation just as I had done with Ezra half a million times. “A bit much for being inside, no? Why are you wearing a coat?”
“I had to go outside.” He flipped one side open, searching for something. “There is an apothecary just down the street.” He produced a small wooden box from an inside pocket and placed it on the end table beside the tray. “For your wound.”
“Thanks,” I replied, my senses somewhat occupied. The smell of carrots, potatoes, and some type of meat wafted towards me. I sauntered over to the tray, my mouth watering when I saw the bowl of steaming stew and the golden bun sitting beside it, a dollop of half-melted butter glistening on the delectably browned top. A silver goblet filled with something red—wine, I presumed—sat just to the left.
I plopped onto the bed and slid the tray onto my lap, oh so ready to dig in. But just before I took a bite, I paused.
“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you are thinking. You are of no use to me dead,” Arkyn said as he swung the window closed.
Arkyn’s last statement did not bode well with me as I had no desire to be of any use to him, in any shape or form. I could ask him what he meant, but this seemed like one of those moments where it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.
My stomach grumbled, urging me to eat. I was a slave to food. So naturally, I complied. Savory broth greeted my tongue. I chewed the diced potato, a subtly sweet taste. When I got to a piece of meat, I melted.
Beef.
My toes curled—this was better than sex.
Arkyn removed his coat and placed it on the small wooden chair in the far corner of the room. He sat beside me, the bed dipping under his weight.
Silence drifted between us as I devoured my supper, my taste buds humming with each bite. When I got to the bottom of the once-heaping bowl, my stomach near bursting, I debated if I could polish off the last of it. But, like I said,slave to food,so I scooped it up and inhaled that too. I debated smooshing my finger against the remaining crumbs and eating them as well, but I refrained—for Arkyn’s sake, not mine.
“Some things never change,” Arkyn chided under his breath, his shoulders bowed in ease.
“What?” I asked, returning the tray to the end table, my attention still somewhat occupied.
“Nothing,” Arkyn replied with a soft shake of his head.
I didn’t need to turn and look to feel his gaze drift over me. I had spent enough time with men to know what such looks meant. And I knew, if I turned, if I connected our gazes, it could lead to something more. Arkyn was handsome—yes, divinely so—but it was who he served that bothered me.
Quite simply . . . he was not Von.
So, I stared at the coin-sized knot in the wooden floor, just beside my right foot, and let the moment pass.
“Your arm needs stitches,” Arkyn finally said, his voice rougher than usual, like a foxtail barb was stuck in his throat.
I knew it did. I had seen cuts half as deep that Ezra stitched up before.
I leaned to the side and plucked the wine cup from the table, inspecting the few sips still left inside—now I knew why he brought it. I chugged the bitter-tasting wine and said, “Well, let’s get it over with.”
Arkyn nodded, his long arm stretching over top of me, reaching for the wood box. I could feel his heat caress my skin, a knock at a door that was closed to him.
I leaned back, granting him more room and myself some needed space.
After he cleaned my wound—the alcohol chewing into my sore flesh—he sanitized the needle and scissors over top of the wash basin. He popped the cork back on the little brown bottle—the disinfectant. Turning around with the suture instruments on a white cloth, he brought them over to me. I spared a withered glance at the gaping flesh, and then what it was about to be met with, and took a deep breath, wishing for another glass of bitter wine.
Arkyn rolled up his sleeves and then he went to work. His strong fingers plunged the needle through my tattered flesh as he pulled the thread through, putting it back together.
The first stitch wasn’t so bad. But it was the next one that had me ready to howl. I gritted my teeth and held it in. I decided that whoever dreamt of using stitches to sew up a wound was a sick bastard—I was a human, not a damn quilt. As if it weren’t already sore enough.
Truth be told, I was a bit of a baby when it came to stitches. I had Ezra to blame for that. Kaleb and I were both accident-prone children, so Ezra developed a salve that allowed the skin to stitch itself back together. I still remember watching it as it worked. She would dab it on, and we would watch in awe as the skin started to generate little threads that would weave together and close any flesh wounds. It was marvelous stuff. Well, besides the fact it would cause the skin to keep growing little thread-like hairs for the next week or so. Otherwise, amazing stuff. I would take that side effect over stitches any—
I yowled like a cat that just had its tail lopped off as the needle sunk in.
It was loud enough for the patrons downstairs to hear. Loud enough for the whole city to hear. Probably.
Probably not—it wasn’t that loud. Like I said, a big baby.
“Almost done,” Arkyn said reassuringly, his fingers coated with my blood.
