Eira sat propped up in the oversized bed, her hair messy and her skin pale against the furs. Vael put bandages across her ribs still pressed tight, and her breathing came shallow. Her body ached, but it was no longer the sharp pain of injury—it was the slow thrum of healing.
Vael was kneeling beside the bed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand holding a shallow clay bowl, the other stirring a mixture of crushed herbs into salve. His fingers were deft, steady, and streaked with dried blood that wasn’t his. He worked in silence, except for the occasional hum under his breath.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up, voice warm and smug.
Eira flushed and looked away sharply. “I’m not.”
He chuckled, low and deep. “Here we go again,you are. And it’s very flattering. Please don’t st
