Page 29 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
I glare up at him, lips set tight. “You’re not my nursemaid.”
“And you’re not fine.” His voice lacks punch, but the truth in it slices me anyway.
I snatch the canteen, tilt it, throat working against the cool water that scalds going down because my body’s that hot. When I lower it, he’s already unbuckling the satchel. Everything sits in tidy rows: compresses, tinctures, tidy little bandages. His orderliness makes me want to laugh or scream.
“What are you expecting to fix, Stormsong?” My voice drips defiance. “A fevered head or a cursed one?”
He holds my stare, steady as always, and I hate how the weight of it shoves past my barriers, straight into the turmoil that urges me to push him away.
Vaylen wets a cloth with water from the canteen and wrings it with careful precision, a soldier even in the smallest act. The cool weight presses against my brow, and the relief crashes into me like a winter breeze. My eyes sink shut without permission, lashes trembling against the sudden sweetness of it. For once, I don’t have it in me to fight.
When I open them, he’s already uncapping a bottle, fingers steady as he tips in a few drops of tincture in a little metal cup. The sharp herbal bite fills the air between us. He angles it toward me.
“Drink.”
I scoff, but the effort stabs my temple. Fine. I tip the cup back, jaw set. The tang burns my tongue, bitter enough to make my nose wrinkle, but the thought of the headache loosening its iron grip keeps me swallowing. He doesn’t move until every last drop is gone. Of course he doesn’t.
The cup vanishes into the satchel, every implementreturning to its exact place like chess pieces on a board. He lives in corners and straight lines, where everything clicks into place with a command. My world’s a snarl of broken threads. Yet here we sit together. His order was the salve for my chaos. Has that changed?
Vaylen puts the satchel away, then as if remembering something, he reaches inside his jacket. A silver glint catches the dim light. A chain dangles from his fingertips, and my heart stops cold when I see what hangs from it.
My ring. My mother’s ring.
“You kept it,” I whisper, the words barely forming.
Vaylen slides the chain off, his movements careful, reverent. “It was all that remained when you—” He swallows the rest. His fingers close around mine, turning my palm upward. The metal feels cool against my skin as he places the ring and chain in my hand, folding my fingers over it.
The onyx eye stares up at me, unblinking. Accusatory. A laugh builds in my throat, bitter and broken.
“I promised myself I’d only wear this once I avenged her.” My voice cracks. “But I’m the one who killed her and her unborn child too.” Tears blur my vision, hot and unwelcome. I push the ring and chain back toward him. “Keep it,” I say. “Until I’m ready.”
Before he can protest, I slip the chain over his head. The ring rests over his heart, safer there than with me.
“Rhea—” he starts.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” I press a finger to his lips.
When his gaze lifts again, it slams into mine. No hesitation. No searching. Just blue edged with firelight and something buried deep. Too deep. His eyes drag down then, slow, deliberate, stopping at my mouth.
“Oh, Vaylen,” I warn, but it comes out low, rough.
His hand rises anyway. Just onefingertip against my lip, brushing away the drop of tincture I didn’t realize lingered there. The touch coils heat through me, far too fast for reason to catch.
And then the memory fills my mind. Two days ago in my count, the courtyard at Fort Ashmire, the press of his solid body, his mouth on mine as we promised each other to be exclusive. I remember the certainty of it, the way the entire Sky Order could have been watching, and I would’ve kissed him harder for it.
My body moves before my mind dares. I lean in, reckless as ever, colliding into his mouth with no patience, no asking. If he wanted order, he never should’ve let me close.
His lips are warm as he tenses for a second.
For half a breath he resists, his mouth still and tense under mine, but then something snaps in him. His hand clamps the back of my neck, and the storm breaks loose.
He kisses me like there was never a missing year, like I only slipped from his grasp two days ago. Yet, his hunger feels honed. His lips crash against mine, fierce, unrelenting. Heat flares through me with the same wildness clawing out of him. Every ounce of his self-control shatters in the force of it.
Our teeth clash, the kiss turning rougher, desperate, as if both of us could consume the space we lost. His stubble scorches my mouth as I pull harder, and the faint taste of herbs clings between us. I dig my nails into his leathers, shoving against that stone chest as if I could tear him apart just to be sure he’s real… and still he holds me tighter, like he’ll never let me rip free.
Air runs out between us, but neither of us care. His tongue claims mine in a furious rhythm that wipes everything else—every memory of darkness, every hint of pain—into nothing. Only his mouth, his heat, his need pressing reckless into mine.
When we break for air, he drags me into hisarms so fiercely my ribs ache with the crush of it. His chest heaves against my cheek, the thud of his heart shaking me as hard as mine does him. He buries me against him, his lips brushing my temple as the words stay locked, unsaid. It doesn’t matter. His grip tells me more than words ever could.
