Page 28 of Zeke
“Still drying.” He pulled off his shirt and held it out to her, careful to keep his eyes on her face even as his peripheral vision caught glimpses of pale shoulders and the elegant curve of her neck. The fabric was warm from his body heat, carrying his scent. “This should work.”
She took it, her fingers brushing his as she clutched it against her chest. The brief contact sent a jolt up his arm. “Could you?—?”
Nodding, he turned his back before she could finish to give her privacy. The rustle of fabric as she dressed tested his self-control. His claws threatened to emerge, so he curled his hands into fists until his knuckles went white.
“Okay. I’m decent.”
When he turned around, his shirt swamped her slight frame. The sleeves hung past her fingertips, and the hem reached mid-thigh, revealing long legs that made his mouth go dry. The fabric clung to her curves, outlining the shape of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
Draanth. The sight of her in his clothes ignited possessive fire in his veins.
She moved to the edge of the pallet, her injured leg stiff but functional. Pausing, she stared down at her calf with wide eyes.
“What is this?” Her fingers traced the black shell that encased her lower leg, smooth as glass under her touch. “It wasn’t here before.”
Warmth crawled up his neck. “Healing cast. Izaean technique.”
Her eyebrows shot up as she examined the rigid covering more closely. “It’s incredible. How did you?—?”
“Izaean secret,” he said, turning away before she could ask more questions. The truth, that it was made from his blood, his essence, would sound insane. Or worse, terrifying.
She tested her weight on the leg, then looked up at him. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“It shouldn’t. The break is immobilized.” He busied himself with the fire, adding fuel to the dying flames. “Keep it dry and it’ll heal.”
She settled on the makeshift bed’s edge, her scent reaching him as she moved… warm skin and something uniquely hers that made his pulse spike. Her bare legs dangled over the side, pale skin marked with fading bruises that made rage surge through his blood. He’d slept with her naked form pressed against him all night, skin to skin, but somehow seeing those slender legs in daylight felt more intimate. More dangerous.
“How do you feel?” he asked, crouching beside the small flames. Heat radiated against his face and chest, but it was nothing compared to the fire her presence kindled in his blood.
“Better. Much better.” She rotated her ankle warily, and he watched the delicate movement with fascination. “Whatever you did worked.”
Pulling breadfruit and tubers from their supplies, he sliced them with more force than necessary. The knife blade caught the firelight as he worked, movements sharp and controlled. “Ketara root tea. Velix leaves for the wound. And the cast.”
The food sizzled as he dropped it into the heated pan, filling the cabin with rich, nutty smells. His stomach growled in response, he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. Behind him, she shifted on the pallet, the soft sound of her breathing mixing with the crackle of flames.
He felt her watching him, her gaze tracing the line of his shoulders, the movement of muscle under skin.
“I set some traps while you were sleeping,” he said, focusing on the food instead of the way his shirt gaped at her neckline when she leaned forward. “I’ll check them later. We might have meat for dinner.”
“You’ve been busy.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The movement bared the elegant arch of her neck, making his mouth water. “Thank you. For everything.”
Color rose in his cheeks. “Don’t thank me. I should have caught the infection sooner. Should have?—”
“Stop that right now.” Her voice was firm and when he glanced back, the look in her eyes was fierce. The expression transformed her face, adding steel beneath the softness. “You saved my life. Multiple times.”
He flipped the breadfruit slices, using the task to avoid her eyes. The golden pieces were crispy on one side, tender on the other. Perfect.
Unlike him.
“Tell me about your life,” she asked softly. “Before all this. What was it like growing up on Parac’Norr?”
His hand stilled on the spatula. What was there to tell? That he’d been shipped off like damaged cargo when he was eight years old? That his childhood had ended the day his blood rage first manifested?
“Nothing much to say. I came here when I was young. Trained. Became a warrior.” He shrugged, making it sound casual. “Standard progression.”
“How young?” Her voice had gone quiet, careful.
The question hung in the air. He could lie, deflect... change the subject. But something in her tone made him answer honestly.
