Chapter27
1340 Words
Kael’s POV
“You don’t know anything about my reputation,” I say, testing her conviction.
“I know you moved faster than three trained warriors could follow. You killed them like it was nothing.” Her eyes spark with what I want to say is admiration. “That’s enough for me.”
The fuzzy feeling in my chest intensifies. When nobles praise my skills, it’s always with an underlying fear, a careful distance. But Elara speaks of my lethal abilities like they’re something to be grateful for, not terrified of.
I take a bite of the boar meat to avoid responding, disturbed by how much her simple faith in me matters.
“We need to change your bandages,” Elara says, suddenly rummaging through her knapsack again. “The wound needs to stay clean while the poison works its way out.”
“I can manage it myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but I have better supplies.” She pulls out a clean cloth and moves toward a small stream nearby. “Besides, I can see places you can’t reach.”
I watch her rinse the fabric in the running water and wring it out carefully. When she returns, she kneels beside me with the damp cloth.
“This might be cold,” she warns, reaching for the torn hem of my shirt.
“I said I can—”
“Oh, stop being difficult.” Her fingers brush against my skin as she lifts the fabric, and electricity shoots through me at the contact. “It’s just a bandage.”
But it’s not just a bandage. Her touch is gentle, careful, completely different from the clinical efficiency of royal healers. When she checks the edges of the wounds and her fingertips graze my abdomen, heat flares through my entire body.
“The swelling is going down,” she murmurs, leaning closer to examine the cuts. “That’s good. The paste is working.”
Her face is inches from mine now, close enough that I can smell the floral scent beneath the dirt and sweat of travel. Close enough that I can see the way her dark lashes flutter when she concentrates.
“Elara.” My voice comes out rougher than usual.
“Hmm?” She doesn’t look up, too focused on her work.
“I can do this myself.”
“Don’t be such a baby. I’m almost done.” Her hand presses flat against my chest to steady herself, and I go completely rigid.
The innocent touch sends fire racing through my veins. She’s not trying to be seductive—she’s simply tending a wound—but having her hands on my bare skin is doing things to my body that I wasn’t prepared for.
She finally looks up, her brows furrowing as she stares at me.
“I’m not hurting you, am I? I’m being careful—”
“You’re not hurting me.” The words sound strained.
“Then why—” She starts to pull her hand away, but I hold her wrist firmly. “What’s your problem?”
When I don’t answer at once, her expression shifts from confusion to irritation.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” She yanks her wrist free with considerable force. “You’re being a big baby about this. I’m just cleaning your wounds.”
“I am not being a baby,” I reply, surprised that I sound so defensive.
“Yes, you are.” She sits back on her heels, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re acting like I’m trying to torture you when all I want to do is make sure you don’t die of infection. Which, by the way, would leave me alone in these woods with no protection, so I have a vested interest in keeping you alive.”
“I told you that I can handle it myself.”
“And I told you that you can’t reach everywhere, especially your back. I have to apply the bandage to both sides of you even if the skin doesn't break on your back.” Her voice rises slightly. “But apparently, accepting help is beneath the great and mighty mercenary.”
“That’s not—”
“What is it, then?” She leans forward, eyes flashing with annoyance. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re being completely unreasonable about something that should take five minutes.”
I clench my jaw, unable to explain that the problem isn’t her help—it’s how her touch is affecting me in ways I can’t control.
“I don’t like being fussed over.”
“Fussed over?” She lets out a short laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize basic medical care qualified as fussing. Next time, I’ll just let you bleed out like a proper tough guy.”
I roll my eyes.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic?” She gapes at me. “You’re the one acting like my touching your back is going to kill you! I’ve seen children handle getting bandaged better than you.”
Heat flares in my chest at the comparison.
“I am not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.” She gives me a pointed look. “Big, strong mercenary afraid of a little medical attention. That’s not dramatic at all.”
The sarcasm in her voice grates against my nerves.
“Fine. Do whatever you want.”
“Oh, how gracious of you to allow me to save your life.” She reaches for the cloth again, her movements abrupt with irritation. “Try not to flinch this time. I’d hate to traumatize you further.”
“I don’t flinch.”
“Right. You just go rigid as a board and look like you’re in agony. Completely different.”
I turn my back to her with more force than necessary.
“Just get on with it.”
“Your wish is my command, Your Majesty.” The title drips with mock reverence as she begins cleaning the wounds on my back with decidedly less gentleness than before.
Despite her annoyance, her touch still sends fire through my veins. But now there’s an edge to it, a tension that makes everything feel even more intense.
“You know,” she says conversationally as she works, “most people say ‘thank you’ when someone saves their life. They don’t act like it’s an imposition.”
“You didn’t say ‘thank you’ when I saved your life.” Her hands are still on my back.
“What?”
“You heard me. I killed three men to keep you alive, and you immediately started barking orders about lying down and letting you treat my wounds. Not exactly a ‘thank you.’”
“I—” She sputters for a moment. “That’s completely different!”
“How?”
“Because you were bleeding to death! I was trying to save your life!”
“So, you’re saying gratitude comes after medical care?”
“Don’t twist my words.” But I can hear the uncertainty creeping into her voice. “That’s not—I mean...”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her touch gentler now as she continues cleaning the wounds. When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“You’re right. I should have thanked you properly.” She pauses. “Thank you. For saving my life. And Luna’s.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But you’re still being a baby about the bandages.”
I scowl at her as she studies all the scars on my body.
“You really don’t take care of yourself,” she decides.
“I’ve been taking care of myself just fine for years.”
“Right. These scars are just decorative.”
“They’re an occupational hazard.”
She hums to herself, and I study the way her hands press against the bandages. She has scars, too. On her fingers. I wonder how she got them.
- Writer
