Page 65 of Twisted Ties
“Why the hell have I never heard any of this before?” she asks, reaching out to take the swab from my hand.
“You don’t know the words for the spell,” I say, shooing away her hand. “Werebeasts are extremely rare these days. And the few that remain are restricted and controlled.”
“How did one get into the school, then?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” My hand hovers above her skin. Pale like moonlight. “Ready? It’s going to hurt.”
She bites down on her lip, her eyes steely with determination. She nods.
I press the cotton wool against the wound, whispering the old incantation, my eyes not leaving hers. She tenses, bites down harder on her lip, pinching itbetween her teeth. But she doesn’t cry out, doesn’t complain.
She’s harder, stronger than she looks. I should know that by now.
“Okay?” I ask when it’s done. Relief floods her face and I dab tenderly at the wound with the cotton wool, watching as it heals. “Next one,” I tell her.
She takes a steadying inhale, then nods, and I press the cotton wool against the puncture wound on her chest, right above the curve of her breast. I can feel her soft skin quivering beneath my fingertips, can hear the whistle of her breath between her teeth, can smell the sweet tinge of her scent beneath all that dog.
She was a skinny thing when we first picked her up. All skin and bones. There’s more meat to her now. A lot more meat. My fingers twitch as I say the old words. I want to touch more of her.
“Done?” she asks when my mouth stops moving.
I jerk out of my reverie, checking the wound is healed and moving to the next one.
When I’ve healed all the wounds on the front of her body, I make her turn around slowly for me, checking there are no more, seeing that there is plenty more fat on that ass of hers now, those denim shorts of hers grown tight and frankly, obscene.
“There are no more,” I say, dragging my gaze back to her face. Her cheeks are all pink, her lips pink too and wet. I stay the hell away from her thoughts, even though I’m curious as hell. “Let’s do the scratches on your neck. They are going to hurt the most.”
“Shit,” she mutters, and I take hold of her arm and bring her closer to me. Automatically she looks up into my face, tilting back her chin and it would be so easy to kiss her rightnow. So easy, like stepping off a ledge and falling. I sweep her dark hair away from her face and her neck, tucking it behind her ear, the small shell littered with three silver stars. Her body is still and for once she holds her tongue, holds her breath too. Gently, I tilt her head to one side. She swallows.
I examine the wounds on her neck. The red scrapes were not made by claws.
“What caused these?”
“Its teeth.”
Teeth. It dragged its teeth down her throat. I swallow. Imagining it. Imagining doing the same.
Fuck!
I hesitate. Then press the new piece of cotton wool against the start of the wound, trailing it down the long column of her throat, over the place where her pulse dances. She winces, closing her eyes.
“You’re all right,” I tell her softly. “Nearly there.”
I mutter the words, my magic humming in my fingers, on my tongue, the proximity of her making my blood sing.
The red lines fade, disappearing into the pink of her flesh, and I can’t help brushing my fingers down the place where they were. Checking, just checking. She closes her eyes, and sighs.
My grip on her arm tightens.
“Rhianna, I–”
There’s a thump on the door. Loud and insistent.
“Rhi! Stone! Are you in there?”
Azlan.
I drop my grip and she opens her eyes, gazing first at me and then the door.
