Page 75 of A Sword of Ice
Could still die.
“I insist,” he urged.
“So do I.”
His brows drew together and that black eye narrowed. The white one had no pupil, no iris, though she felt the disdain in it just the same. “Humor me,” he said.
Iona sighed. She knew what healers were like, and he wasn’t going to give up. Besides, it was just a little wound. It didn’t matter.
“Fine,” she conceded. “Where to?”
“My things are below deck.” He turned, giving her an indication that she should follow, even if he didn’t say the words. She sighed and walked after him, waving her bloody knuckles in Julius’ direction as they passed.
His green eyes were dancing with gaiety, likely because she’d punched Weylyn in the face, and there was no hint of jealousy. She was glad of that at least. She’d seen Ryker’s jealousy. It wasn’t a pretty look on Fae males, the possessiveness they got with their mates. Besides, Ryker was already mated to Shula, even if they seemed to be avoiding one another.
She followed him below deck where he grabbed a wooden stool and kicked it over to her. “Sit,” he growled, before going to his pack and rummaging through it, pulling out what smelt like salve. He grabbed a rag and clean water and kicked out another stool to sit across from her. It groaned under his weight as he took a seat and leaned forward.
Iona held out her hand and waited with bated breath as he began swiping the rag over her bleeding knuckles.
“Fucker has sharp teeth,” she complained as he traced over a particularly tender spot.
“He deserved it.” Ryker cleaned the rag and began swiping again.
Iona observed him while he worked. He was methodical and tender, despite the sheer intimidation of his size. He wasn’t as big as Julius, but he still cut a formidable figure. Only slightly smaller and less muscular, but it was the mystery behind his scars that made him look eerie and somewhat dangerous. They slashed across his face, pulling his expression into a perpetual frown. And that white eye?
The gentle hum of white and yellow magic pulled her from her thoughts. She looked down and watched his fingertips glowing as they spread salve across her knuckles. It left a tingle in its wake as she was enveloped with his healing magic. Where his fingers trailed, her split skin disappeared.
She sighed. “That always skeeves me out,” she confessed.
Ryker’s eyes flicked up to her. “You’ve seen healing magic before?”
A lump caught in her throat. She almost didn’t answer, but the words came out of her anyway. “My sister…” Big brown eyes flashed in her mind. Black braids, dark skin, a charming, caring smile. “She had healing magic.” She hated talking about her sister in past-tense, all but confirming she was dead. It hurt to think about. “She always had a good sense for broken things.”
Broken bones, broken skin, broken hearts…
“It’s a gift and a curse,” Ryker rumbled. “I can sense pain and injuries from miles away. Like an itch falls over my skin that I need to scratch. Even broken, dead bodies can demand to be healed sometimes.” His fingers hovered over the scars of his face, and she wondered if he even realized he was doing it, if they hurt, and she wanted to know their origins.
It wasn’t her place to ask.
“The dead start to rot,” he continued in a haunting voice. “I feel it, and my magic demands that I heal it.”
Iona’s brows pulled together. “Won’t that rot you, though?”
Ryker grunted but didn’t answer, even while his fingers scrubbed over the length of his scars before lowering. She figured he was a man of few words and even more secrets, and everything he’d just told her was rare for him. But then, “So magic runs in the family.”
Iona found herself smiling as she recalled the simpler times. Before the war. “In us females, at least. Me and my sister were the only ones.”
Ryker’s lips twitched. She almost swore it was a smile he wore. “An Elemental and a healer. Rare.”
Iona shrugged. “It was our norm. You kind of remind me of her.”
His brows rose.
“You know… without all… that…” She gestured at his body with her free hand. “I mean in personality. She was always fixing broken things too. I think it’s inevitable with healers; an impulse, really.”
Ryker pulled away from her and his hand went up to his face, hovering over the scars. “Was her price—”
“No,” she interrupted. “She didn’t feel their pain or take their scars. Her price was her energy, her own health.”
