Page 167 of Bitten & Burned
“She’s awake?” His tone pitched upward. “Rowena, you’re—you're awake?”
He sounded like he didn’t know whether to run to me or sprint for more creature comforts. A tray of tea. Six more blankets. A damn bear pelt and a zillion more pillows.
“Unfortunately,” I rasped, lifting the corners of my mouth into something that could almost be called a smile. “Everything hurts. The man I thought was my mentor wants me broken and bleeding at his feet, and my favorite stockings got torn.”
Fig meowed as if to remind me of what I hadn’t lost.
I smiled and bumped his head gently with mine. “I would never forget you, or what could have happened to you, my sweet baby…”
Anton moved into view, breath catching.
“But yes,” I finished. “I’m awake.”
“The bath’s ready,” Quil echoed, rising smoothly to his feet, and reaching for Fig to plop him safely on the other side of the bed.
I moved to stand on my own, but he was faster.
One moment, I was trying to swing my legs over the side of the bed—the next, I was airborne. Quil scooped me up like I weighed nothing at all. Not a strain. Not a grunt. Just motion. Effortless and strong.
The way he cradled me against his chest—one arm under my knees, the other braced firm around my back—it felt like I wasn’t just something he was carrying. I was something he was guarding.
He let me down in the bathroom, but only to sit on the side of the tub, while he knelt in front of me, to roll down what was left of my stockings. I inhaled his scent.
It all hit so suddenly. So vividly. Gods, he smelled amazing. The bond hummed between us, and I inhaled again, deeper this time. His scent wasn’t just pleasant—it was grounding. Comforting. The one consistent thing besides pain.
Warm spice and something darker. The forest after rain. A flicker of smoke. Salt. Earth. Him.
Quil.
He stood, tossing my ruined stockings into my laundry hamper. When he came back, I embraced him.
I turned my face towards his chest, nuzzled closer, and inhaled deeply.
A soft hum escaped me before I could stop it.
He didn’t speak, just looked at me expectantly.
“Got a little something from the bond,” I whispered.
“Yeah?” He asked. “So did I.” He stroked my cheek. “So glad you’re okay.”
“Is it conceited to say ‘me too’?”
“Fuck no, after what you went through? You’re some kind of miracle, Rowena.”
“Yeah? So are you.”
“Nah,” he said softly. “That’s you.”
“Well, I think you’re miraculous.”
He just leaned forward—forehead against mine and breathed, “I’m trying to believe that.”
Then he exhaled slowly and began peeling the rest of my clothing from me.
Blouse. Skirt. Slip shorts. The torn, ruined stockings. He fumbled a little with the corset, but I helped, unhooking the busk. And tossing it aside. He removed my chemise after, leaving me bare in front of him.
His hands were careful. Reverent. His nostrils flared like he was struggling to breathe evenly, and he couldn’t meet my gaze.
