Moonshadow (Moonshadow #1)(42)

“You said you pulled something in your side. Was that the place you got shot?”

With a sigh, she replied, “One of them.”

She had been shot multiple times. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he absorbed the news. When he was confident that he could sound calm and steady, he urged her, “Show me.”

She sighed again, this time impatiently, and flung back one corner of the blanket. Underneath, she wore a spaghetti strap tank top and matching shorts that were very short. They showed off the long line of her slender, muscled legs. She pulled up one corner of the tank, and he saw the scar.

It was a skewed starburst of ridged, livid flesh under the right side of her rib cage, still new enough that the redness hadn’t had a chance to fade. Not questioning his impulse—not thinking about anything other than reacting to the visual evidence of how her life had been in jeopardy—he touched the ridged scar lightly with the tips of his fingers.

Watching him, she said nothing, did nothing, although he could tell by her clenched tension that something about revealing the injury was difficult for her.

“Where else were you shot?” he murmured.

“Right thigh, left shoulder.” She clipped out the words.

Now that she had mentioned it, he could see the edge of the scar peeking out from the tank top, in the flesh of her shoulder, just over her right breast. So her body had been strained on both sides tonight.

He could also see large bruises and contusions on her legs and arms. No doubt she had them on her back as well. She had hit the floor hard, and the Hound had landed its full, considerable weight on top of her.

This time, without asking, he took the edge of the blanket and lifted it farther to reveal the jagged slash on her leg. The scar was a violation of that beautiful, creamy cinnamon-speckled skin. She would have needed surgery on all three wounds. He had known she was still recovering somehow, but this was more, and far worse, than he had imagined.

With gentle firmness, he laid one hand flat on her abdomen, covering the scar. With his right hand, he covered the scar on her shoulder. She took hold of his wrists but didn’t try to force him away.

Then in his native tongue he said the invocation for healing, and Power flowed into her until her body glowed with it. Connected to her as he was, he could sense her pain lessen. Torn, inflamed muscles eased, and the massive bruises faded. They didn’t disappear totally and still showed like faint shadows of mortality darkening her skin. But the deep, livid red was gone.

When he was finished, he didn’t lift his hands from her body. Instead, carefully pressing down, he leaned over her and met her wide, questioning eyes, his expression hard.

“You had no business running into that pub, Sophie Ross,” he said, quietly stern. “No business, especially with serious injuries that are still so fresh.”

She said in a steady voice, “Fuck you, Nikolas whatever-the-fuck your last fucking name is. I was going to say thank you, but then you ruined the fucking moment.”

“Sevigny,” he said.

He could see in her expression that, exhausted or not, she had clearly meant to rip into him some more for his high-handed attitude, but at that, she paused, thrown off stride.

“It’s my last fucking name,” he told her. “Sevigny. And you say ‘fuck’ too often.”

Something sparked in her eyes, and he could tell she almost—almost—smiled. “Fuck yeah, I do. And it’s none of your fucking business how often I say ‘fuck.’ Nor is it any of your fucking business if I choose to run into a pub because people are being attacked, if I rescue a dog who’s been abused, or if I decide to fucking jaywalk just because I feel like it—”

“You’re actually maddening,” he said on a note of discovery. “You. Madden. Me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like I care? Let me lay out a few more things for you. Don’t assume I give a shit what you think. Don’t expect me to believe the world revolves around you—because it doesn’t, bucko. It doesn’t. And don’t think just because you helped me to feel better—thank you, by the way, I really do feel better—that I’m going to start paying attention to anything you say to me.”

“Oh dear Lord and Lady,” Nikolas said. “Cease talking.”

She frowned at him, and from the uncomprehending expression in her eyes, he realized he had slipped into the old tongue again.

“Mmm-hmm, and when you talk like that?” she said, drawing a circle with a forefinger in front of his face. “You just sound stuck-up, because you know I don’t understand a single word you’re saying.”

He glared at her. “Stuck-up.”

She nodded. As tired as she looked, the dark shadows under her eyes had lightened, and her eyes sparkled with irate feeling. She repeated, “Stuck-up.”

What an idiotic, immature thing to say. From out of nowhere, a bolt of laughter shot up. He stamped on it hard. She was being ludicrous, and what’s more, he suspected she knew it and didn’t care.

Underneath his hands, her skin felt luxuriously soft and warm. He could feel the rhythm of her breathing. It felt like a heartbeat. It felt alive and vital and as necessary as air or water.

She was something so foreign to how he had grown accustomed to living he didn’t even have words to express it. He thought his shell of isolation had become immutable, irreversible, but with a few words and that diamond-like fire in her eyes, she shattered it.