Night Shift (Kate Daniels #6.5)(99)

Yet the rest of the caravan seemed to be preparing to move again. Not right away—there was still much to be done—but no one was setting up camp. “How far do you intend to journey today, warrior?”

“To the river.” The response emerged on a grunt, then he hissed before adding, “Beyond that, they travel alone.”

Then he would return to Blackmoor? But the question died on her tongue when she looked behind her.

Though Kavik had refused her help, he apparently wasn’t such a stubborn fool that he would haphazardly slap the salve over his injuries rather than properly attend to them. To better reach the wounds, he’d removed his breastplate, tunic, and loose brocs, leaving only the winter furs belted around his hips to cover his loins, and the leather-wrapped boots hugging his strong calves. With one arm crooked behind his head, he slicked the cream down a slash alongside his ribs, glistening fingers smoothing over taut muscle.

Her own fingers curled against her palms. She’d known he was strong. She hadn’t known that seeing the evidence of his battle upon his flesh would call to hers so forcefully, but her pulse pounded anew.

Hanan be merciful—but that god rarely was. He’d sprayed his seed throughout the world and rocked the earth with his f*ckings. Under his influence, she would be rolling in the blood and mud with this warrior.

She thought that Kavik would roll with her. His head suddenly lifted, and his body stilled as his gaze met hers. No pain in his eyes now. Only the same hunger as before, and no madness with it.

Little dragon.

A fire burned in her now. Not for the first time since she’d earned her sword, Mala wished that she wasn’t bound by the obligations of her rank and could seek the same pleasures that her fellow warriors and friends often did.

Still holding her gaze, Kavik covered the pot of salve. “It is finished,” he said gruffly.

No, it wasn’t. “Do not move, warrior.”

She walked slowly toward him, her gaze following the trail of blood over his rippling stomach. His belt hung low on his hips, the line of it bisecting the ridges of muscle that defined his pelvis and the flat plane of his lower abdomen. He’d rubbed salve into a gash on his heavy thigh, smearing the blood around it. He’d had to spread so much on his arms that his skin appeared oiled. His sides had not been spared the revenants’ teeth and claws; only his chest, which the breastplate had guarded.

“Do not move,” she said again. She was close enough to touch him now, and his hands were clenching as if he stopped himself from reaching for her.

She slipped around his broad shoulder—and sighed. Just as she’d thought. He wouldn’t let anyone attend to him, but he couldn’t reach his own back.

Mala held out her hand. “The salve,” she said.

He began to turn. “Don’t risk—”

She jammed her thumb into his torn flesh—a bite wound, already swollen and red. Every muscle in his back went rigid. His breath hissed.

“I am not tending to you,” she said. “If your Lord Barin sees this, then it will be said that I am torturing you. Can you withstand it?”

Mala knew he could, because the evidence on his back told her he’d withstood far worse. Not just the revenants’ claws and teeth, but more old battle wounds, and the pale stripes of a whip. Had he been enslaved? If so, he must have been young. The edges of the scars had softened with age.

From what she could see, it was the only part of him that had softened. The rest was hard. So very hard. “The salve,” she repeated.

Jaw clenched, he lifted the pot over his shoulder, as if to pass it to her.

“Hold it there for me,” she said and dipped her fingers in. His back stiffened again as she smoothed the cream over the bite.

A frown darkened his blood-masked face as he looked over his shoulder. “That is not torture.”

She hadn’t said it would be painful. Her hand slicked forward around his side, her fingers skimming the skin at the edge of his belt. His big body tightened all at once, thick muscles straining. A laugh rumbled from him, cut short by a groan, then he hung his head and was silent.

Mala grinned and soothed salve across parallel slashes low on his back, then slipped her hand beneath the furs to test the hardness of his ass.

Like glorious steel.

“If you didn’t stink of revenant, I’d taste you all over,” she told him.

A rough sound reverberated through his chest, like another laugh that was strangled before it emerged. Hoarsely he asked, “Will you have me? Will you destroy me completely?”

“I cannot,” she said with real regret.

“Then your touch is torture enough.” A shudder ripped through him, then he stilled again. “Will you give me your name, red one?”

“Mala.” High Daughter of the House of Krima, second in line to the Ivory Throne, and one of Vela’s Chosen. “And yours is Kavik.”

“Only to those who’ve known me longest.”

“And what does someone call you if she’s known you a day?”

His hesitation told her that he took no pride in his current name. “I would have you call me Kavik.”

So she would. “Why do you only escort them as far as the river?”

“The revenants attack anyone leaving this land, but they don’t follow any travelers beyond the bridge.”