Page 54 of The Enemy to the Living
“I can make it hurt less,” I say, voice thick. “But you’ll still have to heal. Should help you get some sleep.”
Quinn nods agreeably. “Okay.”
He doesn’t really know what he’s saying. I trail that hand up into his hair, and he winces when my fingers trace over a large bump. Fuck, he’s been hit hard. Blood is crusted above his mouth, but his nose at least doesn’t look to still be broken.
“Come on. Let’s get you comfortable first. I think you’ll fall asleep after.”
He lets me manoeuvre him up the stairs, not baulking at all when I pull back the duvet so he can climb into my bed. He winces when he settles, letting out a little groan of pain, and the fury in my throat is so thick it threatens to choke me.
I rest a hand on Quinn’s forehead and reach for my blessing. It flows easily down my limbs, into my hands, and through me, into him. I gasp at the sensation. The magic the Huntsman gave me has never been so agreeable, and Quinn makes a faint relieved sound as he settles further into the bed.
That control can only last so long. The magic pushes at my boundaries and I pull it back, not at all willing to injure Quinn any further tonight. If he notices, he says nothing. He blinks dark eyes up at me, and I haven’t healed him, but he now seems more focused.
“I know you can’t tell me anything,” I say. “But I’m going to try to help you, okay?”
Like last time, he reaches for my wrist, but his grip isn’t quite as tight. “You can’t.” His thumb rubs over my inner wrist. “I’ll be okay, you know.”
He won’t. He isn’t. But there’s no point in arguing; each blink is longer, sleep digging its claws in and dragging him under.
Once he falls asleep, hand slipping from my wrist, I kick off my shoes and strip off my clothes. I could sleep downstairs—I probablyshould—but if Quinn wakes in pain, I want to be close by to help him.
I’m down to just my boxers when I carefully climb in on the other side of the bed. Quinn doesn’t move or make a sound. I keep my distance, my entire body tense, tracing his features through the darkness with wary eyes.
I can help him. He’s a formidable fighter, but his wolf will only make him stronger. I don’t know what deal he made with the twins, but if it’s about the fights…
I’ll make it so no one beats him again.
Chapter Eighteen
Quinn
Everythinghurts.EvenplacesI didn’t know could hurt, and I groan before I open my eyes.
When Asher’s bedroom swims into view, I’m not surprised. No. I prod at the strange sensation in my chest. I’m relieved, maybe even a little pleased to be here.
I turn my head—biting back another groan as the movement tugs on some unseen bruise—and look at him. His face is slackon the pillow next to mine, and even in sleep he’s holding himself stiffly, away from me.
Fuck, I must have been a sight last night. This morning? Ugh, who knows. All I know is that everything still hurts, and Sorrel was fuming, and even if they can’t take my wolf without voiding the deal, they can hurt me in other ways.
The worst part is, I’d been excited when two trolls had entered the cage. I’d ignored the fact that the kelpie who rallies all the fighters looked concerned, and I’d ignored the way the entire crowd seemed surprised because I’d wanted more bodies to fight, more blood smeared across my knuckles.
I raise one hand and look at it now. When I curl my fingers, the raw wounds still throb and I scowl.
Fuck healing slowly. I’m hardly healing at all. I think even a human would feel less pain than this the next day.
Sorrel ordered the kelpie to keep them in there. I saw that. I’d been winning, for a moment, but then I’d felt something strange—some weird tug I couldn’t place—and they’d caught me off guard and knocked me down.
The kelpie had called the fight in their favour. Sorrel had told her not to let us out. He told them not to stop.
I huff and close my eyes again, wondering if I might fall back to sleep. I want to. Despite everything, I feel better rested after the few hours I’ve just had than I do after a full night at my place, which is probably because I never get a full night’s sleep there at all.
Maybe it’s just because I’m injured. Maybe it’s because Asher used magic on me. He did, didn’t he? I remember that.
I open my eyes and look at him again. He’s shirtless, and the duvet has slipped down to his waist. I trace the outline of balanced scales on his left shoulder, then the stars that trail down his bicep. Most of his chest is covered, my eyes lingering on an open hand with an eye staring up from its palm, but there’sa large empty space on the left, over his heart. Idly, I wonder what he could fill it with.
Maybe it’s because of him.
Something blooms in my stomach. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, but still one that takes me by surprise because of howvisceralit is, how it cuts through the fog I’ve been living in.
