The Sharpest Blade
Page 49

I toss the pillow Kynlee gave me onto the end of the couch, then pick up the blanket.
“I’ve been ordered to heal you.”
Aren’s voice startles me. I look over my shoulder and see him standing in the doorway, his edarratae bright and captivating in the dim lighting. Haphazard and sexy, that’s how I’d describe him, and I want so badly for him to be here because he chooses to see me, not because he’s been ordered to.
“I’m fine,” I say, turning back to the couch and unfurling the blanket.
“Taltrayn mentioned blisters and bruises.”
“You don’t want to be here, Aren.”
“He outranks me,” he says. “And he’ll know if I don’t heal you.”
“He’ll get over it.” I start to sit on the couch, but Aren crosses the room and grabs an end of the blanket. I try to jerk it free, but he doesn’t release it, and that makes the material slide across my sensitive palms. I hiss as I let the blanket go.
“Just give me your hands.” He grabs them, turning my palms up, and when he presses his fingers against the raw skin, my mind flashes back to two months ago. I’d just slid down a rope made from sheets, and he insisted on healing my damaged skin. I resented his touch then, the hot lick of his chaos lusters that made me want to lean into him. I resent it now, too. If he doesn’t want me as much as I want him, then I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to think of the warmth of his mouth, the kiss of his edarratae, or the subtle but drugging scent of cedar and cinnamon that makes me want to melt in his arms.
I clench my teeth together and stare at his chest because I refuse to get lost in his eyes.
My palms mend quickly, but Aren doesn’t move away. He slides both his hands up my arms, finds the bruises on my right wrist and the ugly one just hidden under my left sleeve. A pleasant burn runs through me.
God, I want him.
I thought Aren’s chest would be a safe place to stare. It isn’t. It’s rising and falling with his breaths, and all I want to do is slide my hands up his body. I want to kiss his neck and linger until his chaos lusters pool beneath my lips.
He drags himself back a step, and, finally, I look up. He quickly looks down, tilting his head slightly then—
“Sidhe, McKenzie.” He drops to his knees in front of me, his palm pressing against my right calf.
“Ow!” I say, kicking his hand away.
He grabs my leg again, this time flaring his magic. “He’s supposed to protect you, not injure you.”
“He’s teaching me to protect myself.”
“Which will be hard to do if you can’t walk or hold a sword.”
“Careful,” I say. “You almost sound like you care.”
He peers up at me. “I never said I didn’t care.”
I cross my arms, look away, and stand rigidly, waiting while he heals me. When he’s finished with my calf, he starts to rise, but then he spots another injury: the deep bruise on my upper, outer thigh. Slowly, he slides his hand up my leg. The lower hem of my sleepshirt lifts slightly as he places his hand over the bruise. His palm is hot. I’m hot.
“Please tell me this is the last one,” he murmurs, his hand easing upward a fraction of an inch.
“There’s another,” I say quietly. “It’s higher on my left side.”
Slowly, he rises. He looks almost afraid when he meets my gaze. “How much higher?”
“Upper ribs.”
He draws in a breath as if he’s steeling himself, then he lifts my sleepshirt. It slowly, softly slides up over my hips and stomach. His hands are level with my breasts. He should be able to see the bruise now, but his silver eyes never leave mine.
A heartbeat passes. Two. Then three. He lifts the sleepshirt over my head, then his hungry gaze rakes over me. My body thrums as if it’s wrapped in edarratae.
“Sidhe,” he breathes out. “You’re . . .”
He closes his eyes, shaking his head as if he can get the image of me out of his mind. That’s the last thing I want.
I grab his hand, slide it down my body until it rests over the deep bruise on my side.
His eyes open. He nods as if I’ve asked him a question, then he pulls his hand free from mine.
He drops to a knee again then focuses intently on my injury. He places his palm against it. Then I feel him shake.
Before I can ask him if he’s okay, he slides his hand around to my back and presses his mouth against the bruise.
His magic flares and, holy hell, my legs nearly buckle. I have to lock my knees to stay upright.
He moves his lips, sending his healing magic into the upper part of my injury. I’m dying to fist my hands in his hair, but I settle for his shoulders, afraid of pushing him too far, too fast. I can feel how tightly he’s coiled. He’s holding himself back, giving himself the smallest taste of me.
His lips slide to my stomach. Another taste.
His mouth moves higher. A lick, just under my breast.
I’m trying to hold myself still—I don’t want to pull him out of the moment; I don’t want him to stop—but my body gives a tiny buck, and he freezes. His breath is warm on my breast, and I want him so badly, I ache. I bite my lower lip, silently pleading for him to continue.
Suddenly, his hands leave my body. He stands, taking a half step away from me.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
I wrack my brain for something to say, some way to pull him back to me, but he just stands there staring at me as if he has no fucking idea what he’s doing.
“Aren—”
He moves, his mouth taking mine in a brutal, bruising kiss.
Fire explodes through me, ricocheting in my stomach and sending a hot, molten heat downward. I grab his shoulders again because I’m not going to let him go. I dig my fingers into the muscles of his back and part my lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
He does, tasting me. I moan and press closer.
He grabs my hips as he pulls my lower lip between his teeth. His bite surprises me, sending a sharp jolt of pain or pleasure—I’m not sure which—through me.
I gasp a second later, not from Aren’s nip but from the alarm vibrating through my life-bond. But I can’t stifle the need building inside of me, and quickly, Kyol catches on. I feel him vanish from this world, feel a wall fall between us. I should be concerned about him, considerate of his feelings, but Aren’s scent is intoxicating, and I can only think of him.
I fist my hand in his shirt, slide it up.
“I want this off you,” I say. I slip my fingers under his weapons belt. “This, too.”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No protest. He’s mine.
He loops his arm around my waist, swinging me around. The back of my legs hit the couch. Aren pulls off his shirt, drops his belt to the floor, then moves over me. My gaze is locked on his chest, then on a bright bolt of lightning that zigzags across his perfect abs. Perfect even with a deep scar cutting between the muscles. My fingers find a new one on his shoulder, then I slide my hands to his face, pull him closer.
I can’t lose you, I want to say, but I kiss him instead, my hips rising to press against his.
He’s still wearing his pants. I tug at them, kiss him harder.
He breaks the kiss, separating from me just enough to gaze into my eyes.
The light from his chaos lusters reflects off my skin, and my heart thunders in my chest. This is the brink, the one I’ve stood on too many times to count, and I can practically hear Aren’s thoughts demanding for him to stop.